Cigarettes and Cinnamon
by LindenMae
Summary: One of those AUs where the Vongola is never created, Gokudera still lives in Italy and Yamamoto is still playing baseball. Sex for money isn't always that simple. 5980. rated mature for intended prostitution and mansex
1. La Parte Uno

**Originally inspired by a prompt on the old khrkinkmeme but not posted there. It's too long and I'm too lazy.**

**I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!**

Italy is different. He keeps thinking that he'll eventually get used to the traveling and maybe not be so overwhelmed every time he gets dropped in a new country but then he gets there and he's like a little kid lost without his mother. He's been living in The United States for a few years now and he's almost as used to it as Japan… _almost, _but Italy isn't anything like either of them; at least Japan and the U.S. border the same ocean… on one side.

He's on vacation, taking some time off before the season starts and he burns out, like he could ever burn out from baseball, and he's come to Italy on the arm of a pretty actress that the tabloids have recently decided he's dating. He barely knows her but she's nice and both of their publicists think it's a good idea for them to be seen together. He's there to attend a premiere of her movie and he's excited enough but he doesn't always know what to do with himself without baseball and, despite what the tabloids claim and what his publicist would love to make true, he's just not interested.

He thinks, as the souls of his shoes scuff against the ground, that his publicist would have a heart attack if she were to see him now. He's in the wrong part of town and just by looking at the way the walls are crumbling and the not quite pleasant tang in the air, he knows it. The moral decay of the area sticks to bottoms of his shoes and invades his senses and he feels a blush creeping across his cheeks that bids him stay to the shadows even though no one has seemed to recognize him yet.

Ladies of the night leer at him from around corners, thrusting their ample bosoms his way and beckoning to him with their sensuality. He's seen hookers before, he's not that naïve, but he has to admit that even the sex trade in Italy must be different. There's something romantic about what he's doing, about how the women let their bodies do the talking and how they call to him in a language that he doesn't understand but that dances in his ears like a wind chime.

If he gets caught here it will probably destroy his public image; no one will fall for the dumb smile that he plasters on his face to avoid uncomfortable questions anymore. But, at the moment, he thinks that maybe that's okay. The thrill in his chest as he makes his way from one end of these slums to the other is enough to combat any concrete worries that he may have and it grows exponentially when he catches a flash of pale skin peeking out from the shadows directly in his path.

This is what he's been looking for, this is why he's here and not safe in his plush hotel room or pretending to woo a nameless actress whose movies he's never actually seen.

He slows down, his heart pounding so hard against his ribcage that he's sure the hookers can hear it. He's seen hookers before but he's never picked one up and he's not totally sure what the protocol for such a situation is. He thinks, briefly, about turning around and forgetting that he ever wanted to do this but the owner of the skin he's almost started drooling over has caught sight of him and he feels drawn to a set of piercing peridot eyes like a moth to a flame.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets as he approaches and he receives a smirk around the butt of a cigarette in exchange for his blush. He thinks he's found the most beautiful man in Italy almost immediately and the man's manner of dress tells him that he won't be insulting anyone when he puts forth his proposition. But there's something about this man that gives him pause and tells him the man won't settle for a handful of Euros and a rough fuck in the alley. This man is dangerous; blow his mind and take his wallet dangerous, and Yamamoto Takeshi has never been harder in his life.

"What are you staring at, freak?" The man spits when he's within hearing distance and tosses his cigarette to the ground, crushing the butt beneath the heel of his shoe.

Yamamoto opens his mouth to respond before he even realizes that the man has addressed him in Japanese and not the heady flow of Italian he's been bombarded with the past few days.

"Ahaha… nothing." Yamamoto looks away guiltily but then remembers why he's here and what's at stake and the uncomfortable throb in his pants and musters up the courage to move forward with his desires. His eyes grow dark with determination and he takes a confident step forward. "Actually… I was looking at you."

"Che. Of course you were." The man mutters, crossing his arms over his chest and staring Yamamoto down. He has silver hair and a slight build and Yamamoto is enthralled. He doesn't know if he has a type but he thinks this man is a perfect example of what it should be.

"What's your name?" He breathes and the man glares at him.

"My _name_ isn't important. Do you have money?"

Yamamoto nods eagerly and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. The man's shirt shifts over his shoulders when he moves, alternately exposing different expanses of his collarbone. It is so prominently visible beneath the thin straps of his almost translucent undershirt. His unbuttoned dress shirt hangs loosely off his shoulders and his pants sink low on his hips, held up by a tangle of thick black belts that are meant to tease. They bear a striking resemblance to the iron forged chastity belts that pop into Yamamoto's mind every time he hears the term and they make him ripe with the desire to get them undone and taste the fruit they're guarding.

"Good." The man uncrosses his arms and trails a slender finger along the hem of his undershirt where it doesn't quite reach the waist of his pants. Yamamoto's eyes follow and his lips part slightly in hesitant anticipation.

When he turns, Yamamoto follows him, his nerves a mess of trepidation and tantalizing lust. They head down the alley, away from the slums, at a pace so slow Yamamoto almost can't take it.

"I don't come cheap." The man warns without looking over his shoulder. Yamamoto blushes again even though nobody can see it and fingers his wallet.

"I've got plenty of money." He says with only a slight waver in his voice.

"Unfortunately." The man grumbles and Yamamoto feels his stomach flip with nerves and confusion. He didn't know that prostitutes could afford to be so picky but the man's still leading him on somewhere, so maybe he's not that picky after all.

They keep walking deeper into the alley until the sordid scents of sex and debauchery begin to fade and Yamamoto's nerves begin to rise. Just as he's about to question the man's direction, he makes an abrupt turn and stops to unlock a door that Yamamoto would probably never have noticed if he'd been left to find his own way. The door is hidden by shadows and the overhead of a rickety staircase. It's nicer than most of the doors that they've passed so far, heavy and dark and _safe_, he thinks.

He hesitates for just a second, in the openness of the alley, but a sharp glance from those envy green eyes sets his heart pounding and his stomach twisting and when the man disappears into the darkness behind that door, Yamamoto is close on his heels.

"3,000.00€." The man says flatly, turning and running a slender finger under the hem of his shirt, lifting it just high enough to expose the planes of his pale, flat stomach.

Yamamoto's mouth goes dry from a combination of his arousal and the fear that he may not have that much money on him. A million thoughts run through his head as he pulls out his wallet and fumbles with the notes. He briefly realizes that this man is asking him for almost four thousand in American dollars but a quick glance at the man's scowling face and the way his pulse runs tells him that it's worth it, more than.

"If you don't have it, don't waste my time." The man growls and crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at Yamamoto with unwarranted anger.

It makes the ballplayer uncomfortable and a thought niggles at the back of his mind that this isn't how it should be. The unease doesn't stop him from frantically trying to come up with the right amount of money though. There's something about this man, something that Yamamoto can't ignore, that keeps him rooted to the spot.

"I've got it. I've got it." He protests, pulling out a wad of notes with a grin and holding it out to the silver haired man.

The man chews his bottom lip as if he was expecting Yamamoto to fail and doesn't quite know what to do now that he hasn't.

"Put it on the bedside table… over there." He points to a far corner of the dark room, where Yamamoto can make out a large, plush looking bed and the shadow of a small table next to it. He clears his throat uneasily but makes his way over to it, setting the money on the table top.

His back is to the man and he's glad for that because it means that he can't see Yamamoto's shaking hands. The situation is far more awkward than he thought it would be and he kind of wishes he'd had something to drink before embarking on this mission. A healthy buzz would have made this decision more sensible in the first place and would probably make his flagging erection a lot stronger at this point.

He hears the man shifting behind him and then a frustrated 'Che' and suddenly there's warmth at his back that he wasn't quite expecting.

"No kissing." The man hisses in his ear before forcefully turning him around and immediately attacking his neck with sharp teeth and warm lips.

Yamamoto grips his biceps and moans a little louder than he means to. His erection's interest is immediately piqued and he can feel it straining against his pant leg and pressing into the man's hip. His own hips buck wantonly forward as the man's tongue laps across the sensitive spot behind his ear.

"You're beautiful." He whispers into silver hair when the man's lips purse against his jaw. He knows the prostitute said no kissing and it's all he can do to keep from turning his head just so and capturing those alluring lips with his own. He thinks the man probably tastes like cigarettes and cinnamon. He doesn't know why, but he thinks it's definitely cinnamon.

"Don't talk." The man sounds impatient and that's okay because Yamamoto is too.

"Haha, sorry."

The man looks up at him sharply, reminding him of what he just said with his eyes. Yamamoto opens his mouth to say that he's sorry again and then remembers that he's not supposed to and just smiles sheepishly. The man rolls his eyes and looks down to focus on the buttons of Yamamoto's shirt. His fingers brush against Yamamoto's bare skin and send a ripple of pleasure across his body.

It crosses Yamamoto's mind that he should be doing more with his hands than keeping a death grip on the prostitute's shoulders but at the same time he's afraid to do anything wrong. He can tell that one false move will send this man away, probably with his money, and he definitely doesn't want that. As if reading his mind the man looks up and gives him a harsh look that only seems to accentuate his beauty. His pale, pale skin pulls across prominent cheekbones and thin silver brows arc across his forehead.

If Yamamoto was a thinker, and he isn't, he'd try to find some way of properly putting the feelings that this man has caused in him into words. He would try to do his emotions poetic justice and he would scour the Roman pantheon for the proper equivalent so that he could deify this man. But he isn't a thinker and so he's forced to make do with a healthy moan when the Italian's lips suck hard at his collarbone and a few breathy pants when the man's fingers find his zipper and deftly pull it down.

He remembers how his own fingers work then and he releases his grip on the Italian's biceps so that he can slide them through that soft, silver hair. He gasps when the man pulls him out through the fly of his jeans, slender fingers gripping his flesh gently but firmly enough to be felt. And Yamamoto definitely feels them. Yamamoto keeps his own fingers twisted in the man's hair when he begins to slide down the ballplayer's body to rest on his knees.

He looks up at Yamamoto expectantly and Yamamoto gazes down, flushed with lust and confusion.

"Condom?" The man spits out impatiently and awareness dawns on Yamamoto slowly. He'd been entirely too focused on the man's soft, supple lips so close to the exposed tip of his cock that he hadn't thought about protection at all.

He smiles and chuckles nervously when the man's eyes narrow; then reaches into his back pocket for one of the two foil packets that he'd stuck there that morning before leaving his hotel room. He hands it to the man with shaky fingers and he's relieved when the man takes without question. He doesn't think he'd be able to put it on right with the way his hands are trembling and he's only got the two.

The Italian lets go of his cock long enough to tear open the little foil package and Yamamoto whines with the sudden feeling of cool air on his over sensitive flesh but the man gives him a dirty look and places the lubricated latex glove on the tip of his erection, following it with his lips. Yamamoto gasps out loud and accidentally shifts his hips forward, thrusting his member past the man's lips. The man chokes just a bit but manages to keep his lips behind the roll of latex until it's all the way down to the hilt and Yamamoto's erection is practically tickling the back of the man's throat.

It takes the ballplayer's breath away, leaves him jelly-limbed and dizzy and if he could think about anything but the incredible warmth suddenly encasing him he'd wish they'd made it to the bed already but he can't think so instead he just feels and tries to focus on keeping himself upright. The man's eyes slide up to watch Yamamoto's face as he pulls back, sucking. Yamamoto licks his lips as if he can taste the cloudy haze of lust that he can see in the other's eyes.

The man flicks his tongue across the tip of the ballplayer's cock when his lips reach the base of the head, and swirls it around the latex encased flesh.

"Oh… oh fuck." Yamamoto wishes he could feel the wet muscle against his skin but somewhere deep within his lust addled brain he knows this is the best way. He can't stop himself from thrusting forward and the Italian growls and plants his hands on Yamamoto's hips but doesn't stop him from moving so Yamamoto keeps fucking his mouth in quick, short thrusts until he feels the heat of his orgasm beginning to coil in his belly.

It's like the man can see his impending crash in his face because the man pushes his mouth forward one last time and deep throats Yamamoto's erection with ease, swallowing around his cock and milking out his climax. Yamamoto shudders and nearly collapses but the Italian holds his hips steady until his shaking has passed. When the ballplayer starts to think that maybe he can stand without help, the Italian abruptly lets go and slides his mouth off of Yamamoto's cock. He pulls the condom from Yamamoto's sweat slicked skin and ties it off, tossing it to the floor.

When he looks up, Yamamoto wants to kiss him more than ever. The Italian's lips are swollen and red, like ripe berries that Yamamoto knows would taste sweet across his tongue. Sated, Yamamoto reaches down to fix himself but the Italian swats his hands away and reaches up to undo the button on his pants before roughly yanking them down to his knees. Yamamoto is taken by surprise but less so than when he's spun around and thrown, face first, onto the bed. It's soft and catches him like a giant pillow.

He feels the man rooting around in his pocket and he briefly worries that this is the part where he gets robbed and left behind but then the man's hand is gone and he can still feel the weight of his wallet against the back of his thigh.

It's when he feels the hot, heavy presence of the Italian behind him, erection pressing against the crease of his ass, that he realizes what's going on. The Italian's warm breath against his ear makes his body tremble and he feels himself beginning to harden again just in anticipation of feeling the Italian inside him. He hears the foil tear and almost wiggles his ass in anticipation.

The prostitute drags a finger up his crease and teases his entrance and Yamamoto tenses.

"Aren't you going to use lube?" He asks; his voice shaky and muffled by the comforter.

"Did you bring lube?" The man rasps against his back.

"Nuh… no."

"Idiot. Then I guess I won't be using it, will I?" The man bites Yamamoto's back through his shirt for emphasis and the ballplayer whines and pushes his chest further into the bedding.

The finger disappears for a second and Yamamoto can hear the man spit into his hand and then it's back and, thankfully, slick with saliva, pushing for entrance against him. It takes three fingers and an eternity of slow probing and finger fucking before the Italian seems to decide that Yamamoto is ready for his cock. Yamamoto had decided this many minutes prior. He's squirming on the bed, moaning, and thrusting his hips up against the man's fingers in an attempt to beg for more because his mouth can't quite form the words.

The man bunches Yamamoto's shirt up underneath his shoulder blades and licks a long line up his back as he pulls his fingers out and leaves the ballplayer whining and empty. Yamamoto loses his breath when he feels the man's member line up against him. His hands fist in the bedding and he moans long and low when the Italian begins pushing in. It burns but it's dull and almost pleasant. There's not enough lubrication on the condom but he's still slick with spit so the movement is smooth if not easy.

"Fuck. Tight." He hears the man grunt behind him, mouth hot and wet against his back.

A hand reaches around and worms between Yamamoto's hips and the bed to grip his cock and stroke and the gesture earns a keening sound from the ballplayer's throat. He can't decide whether to push back against the Italian's hips or thrust forward into his hand. A warning nip at the flesh above his spine stills him and allows the prostitute to set the pace.

"Harder, fuck. _Harder_." Yamamoto moans after what feels like a century of movement and the man still isn't hilted. He would be ashamed of how wanton he sounds if he had the faculties to be aware of it, as it is he's face down in a studio apartment just outside the slums letting himself be thoroughly fucked by a man whose name he doesn't know. Maybe wanton is the perfect way to sound.

He nearly sobs with relief and pleasure when the man heeds his pleas and begins thrusting, hard and deep. His hips slap against Yamamoto's ass every time he pushes in and his hand strokes the ballplayer's erection with a rough grip. When the Italian angles his hips just so and hits Yamamoto's prostate, the ballplayer comes violently and collapses against the bed, strength sapped. He clenches around the Italian's cock in his ass and the man barks a moan above him before hitting his own climax and releasing. He shudders and collapses against Yamamoto's back, wrapping his arms around the ballplayer's waist and panting shallowly against his skin.

They stay in this position until Yamamoto's thighs begin to ache and he shifts almost unconsciously. When the Italian slides off of him and pulls out, he musters just enough strength to drag his lower half onto the bed and pull up his pants. He is comfortably spent, sticky with sweat and semen, and numb with after orgasm bliss. He is only vaguely aware of a phone ringing in the background as he slips into the abyss of sleep.

xXx

The Italian prostitute slips the used condom from his flaccid member and ties it off. Picking up the previously discarded condom from the floor, he drops them both in the trash before pulling his cigarette pack from his pocket and shaking one free. He sidles to the far side of the room, the little kitchen area from where he can still see the sleeping Asian, and lights it. It's only then that he flips his phone open and answers it with obvious irritation.

"What?" He says in Italian.

"Hayato. Where are you?"

The man scowls. "None of your business, sis."

There's a feminine sigh on the other end. "Oh Hayato."

"What do you want, Bianchi?"

"Father wants you home. You know you have to play at that movie premiere tonight. He doesn't think you should be out roaming the town when you have such an important concert coming up."

"What if I don't want to play tonight? He can't make me." He pouts because there's no one to see him.

"Stop being so childish. That American baseball player you claim you can't stand will be there. You can get his autograph."

The man lets his gaze wander to the sleeping man again. His expression softens. "He's Japanese. He's just on an American team. And I don't give a fuck about baseball or him or his autograph, so fuck you."

"Well, maybe if you play with love in your heart he'll give you more than his autograph." Anyone else would be teasing him; Bianchi is serious.

"Che. Whatever. I'll be there in half an hour." He mumbles as he clicks the phone closed and watches the ballplayer's chest rise and fall with even breaths.

Gokudera Hayato's lips curl up with a hint of a smile as he crosses the room and watches Yamamoto's sleeping face. He bends down to softly brush his lips against the ballplayer's mouth and sighs, then he crosses to the door and pulls it open, leaving Yamamoto's money on the bedside table without ever touching it. When he leaves, he slams the door just hard enough to make sure the ballplayer wakes and with a smile on his face he makes his way down the alley toward his father's mansion, his fingers already dancing across the black and white keys of his piano in his mind.

xXx

When Yamamoto wakes, the only thing he is concretely aware of is the taste of cinnamon on his lips.


	2. La Parte Due

The Italian cityscape flashes past the windows of the large, luxury car they are riding in faster than he can appreciate it. He's lounging awkwardly against the leather seat, long limbs stretched out in the, thankfully, spacious area but he's got too much pressure put on his hip and lower back to be truly comfortable.

His actress-date is chattering animatedly to him from the rear facing seat and he's trying valiantly to listen, but it's impossibly difficult with the speed of her speech and the fact that he's just not interested in what she has to say. His mind is overrun with images of pale skin and silver hair and acid eyes and even if he _could_ keep up with her he wouldn't want to. He's thinking about his maybe not a prostitute and the thoughts are keeping a soft smile on his face even as the woman's voice scratches at his ears.

She's talking, _gossiping, _about the man who scored the film they're about to see, much to his disappointment it has nothing to do with points or winning and losing, and the heirs to the hotel where they're staying and where the reception is being held. He doesn't see the connection and if she told him then he missed it, but he does his best to pretend to listen because he can feel the dopey grin on his face every time his thoughts wander and he doesn't want to insult her.

There's a tumbler of amaretto in his hand, the condensation from the almost melted ice is creeping over his fingers and dripping onto his pant leg and, after swirling the quickly dissolving ice cubes around the bottom of the glass several times, he takes a long drink just for an excuse to avert his eyes. He muses on the description of the man, the _composer,_ because the score of a movie is apparently the music, that he's managed to glean from his companion's conversation and only in the back of his mind does he wish that this car ride was already over. Apparently the man's an eccentric which, to his understanding, is not quite the equivalent of crazy or is, perhaps, a _nice way_ of saying that someone has not quite got all of their marbles. He hears the term often applied to rich men, which he's already assumed this man is since she's gone on and on about how he wrote the entire soundtrack from his mansion on an Italian cliff-side with only the sound of the waves crashing against the rock for a metronome, blah blah blah… Yamamoto does not appreciate the romance of the story because he does not have any idea what a metronome is.

There are tears welling up in her overly large brown eyes and Yamamoto is immediately confused. He has to admit that he wasn't quite as tuned in as he should have been but he's _sure_ she hasn't said anything sad.

"Miss Miura?" He questions, leaning forward, wincing, and laying an awkward palm on her bare knee.

She looks at him and sniffles, clasping her hands in front of her bosom, smaller than those he was exposed to earlier in the day and still not the least bit tempting to him, while she attempts to maintain composure.

"It's just so beautiful. He dedicates every piece he writes to his late mother, who died when he was just a toddler and only left him a piano. And he composes every piece on that same piano!" She sighs dramatically as a single tear slips down her cheek. Yamamoto thinks it would be terribly romantic of him to lean forward and wipe the droplet away and so he leans back and takes another drink of the watery almond liquid in his hand.

He thinks it's a sweet story, especially considering the fact that he's lost his own mother, but he can't shake his slight annoyance at the woman's over-dramatics. He much prefers the brash and unforgiving, in your face honesty of his probably a prostitute, whose image conjured in his mind is much fairer than that of the old and semi-insane composer he's imagined. Though, in his mind's eye, their hair colors are much the same.

When it becomes clear to her that he is not going to be lured in by her performance, the actress snorts in frustration and drops her hands to her lap.

"Well, Haru thinks it's beautiful…" She mutters, casting him a sidelong glance from beneath her bangs.

Yamamoto may not be very interested in her conversation but he does not like the idea that he's hurt her feelings. He laughs awkwardly and palms the back of his neck for lack of a better thing to do since he doesn't want to flirt with her but he doesn't want to come right out and announce that he's gay either, not if there's no one to go through all that trouble for.

"Ahaha I'm sorry, Haru-chan." He compensates for his lack of direct contact by slipping into the Japanese formalities that they're both probably more comfortable with. They found out very shortly after their publicists threw them together that they grew up in the same area even though they never met.

She sticks out her lower lip in a short-lived pout before seeming to decide that giving him the silent treatment for the rest of the ride is not a better way to spend the time than continuing with her stories. Yamamoto is relieved that she doesn't push the issue and he resolutely decides that he can put off daydreaming just a little bit longer.

"His name is Japanese, Gokudera Hayato," she says, as if that little fact is the most distinctive thing about the man. "But he isn't Japanese, at least he doesn't look it, and her name is Italian."

_Her?_ He's lost but he doesn't want to admit just how little he's been listening so he keeps his mouth shut and waits for Haru to go on, hoping at some point she'll repeat herself or explain.

She doesn't. She immediately begins talking about the hotel heirs, completely leaving the eccentric, millionaire composer and his mystery woman behind, and Yamamoto still doesn't see the connection. He also doesn't see the pull, since there's plenty of spoiled heirs and heiresses in the United States, but he listens patiently anyway, wishing inside that the night was already over.

Apparently they have mafia ties, which is still another thing he does _not_ understand. He's seen _The Godfather_, because some of his teammates sat him down and made him watch it as sort of an American initiation rite, but it was really long and he couldn't focus over the prolific drug use and he didn't _get it_.

"I don't get it," he blurts out, effectively interrupting her story. "If they're in the mafia then why do they need to own hotels?"

All he's gotten so far from her description was the understanding that the mafia is very, _very_ bad and he could have guessed that much from watching the movie.

"Money laundering, of course." She responds, wide eyed at his total innocence.

"They clean money at the hotels? What does that do?"

"Takeshi-san!" She looks aghast at him, like he's said something irrefutably stupid, and if that doesn't immediately make him want to close off and start daydreaming about the morning again… "They don't _clean_ the money, it's… it's…" She struggles for a few seconds to come up with the right way to explain it to him and he can tell he's in for a lecture that he has no hope of comprehending when, mercifully, the car rolls to a halt and the door swings open, announcing their arrival at their destination.

He's immediately bombarded by flashing lights and foreign accents calling his name and he just barely remembers to stop and wait and offer Haru his arm before wading into the melee of reporters. They're only a few steps in before she freezes and squeezes his bicep tightly, pulling up onto her tiptoes to whisper furiously in his ear.

"Hahi! Takeshi-san! That's them!"

There's no chance for him to ask who so he just scans the crowd until his line of sight lands on a shorter male with soft silver hair and a finely tailored black suit. He doesn't get a chance to inspect the man before he's hidden away behind the visage of a stunning woman with Raphaelite curves and brilliant berry tinted hair. The composer, he surmises, and clearly the _her_ in question is his much younger wife or girlfriend, if the difference in their heights is anything to go by. That's not so odd, he thinks. Gross… but definitely not odd.

Then the swarm of reporters and photographers is upon them and he's forced to make nice for the cameras, something he's infinitely more used to than having to make awkward conversation with a woman he barely knows. It's not the fact that she's hanging off his arm that bothers him or even the fact that their behavior will only further cement the idea that they're dating, he's always been pretty popular with girls, it's the fact that he's expected to do more than smile and be gracious because he doesn't know _how _and he keeps wishing that the grip were just a bit stronger, firmer, _angrier_ and he doesn't know how to deal with that either.

xXx

The movie's better than he expected, probably because it's about Japan and Samurai and he's always been pretty interested in swords, pun not intended, even though he's never actually picked one up. Because of his earlier conversation, he finds himself listening raptly to the music. It's haunting and beautiful and leaves him longing for something or someone, he doesn't know what or who, with a tear in his eye. He pretends it's for Haru's performance when she asks him his opinion afterwards and is blissfully saved from having to participate in the conversation on the way back to the hotel by her exuberant reaction to that one comment.

She goes up to her room to change and he immediately heads downstairs to the hotel bar to get started early. He doesn't want to deal with another red carpet so he goes around the back to avoid it and has a shot of _Sambuca_ in his hand within minutes. He thinks about skipping the reception altogether but then thinks of something Haru said in the car about the eccentric composer giving a live performance of the piano pieces in the movie's score and he decides that despite how boring the entire night is looking to be, he'd really like to hear it. So he settles in at the bar and braces himself for a few hours of monotony before he can retire to his room and maybe, hopefully, sneak out and back to the slums.

It's another hour or so before the after-party really gets started and he's got a healthy buzz going by the time Haru finds him and it's more than enough to keep him from caring when she gives him a disapproving look. He maintains sobriety enough to keep up casual conversation when he's approached but, like it's been all day, his mind is far away. He is subjected to more than a few sharp nudges from Haru's elbow and is forced to excuse himself to re-fill their champagne glasses enough times that his head is beginning to swim, because he can't concentrate. The hotel's ballroom echoes with sounds of conversation and the tinkling of glassware and it feels uncomfortably clean. He almost yearns for the grit of that long and shadowed alley when his dress shoes squeak on the marble floor.

When the performance is announced and the curtains drawn away from the bandstand to reveal a brilliant baby grand piano, Yamamoto is stunned to find that he has already gravitated toward that side of the ballroom. The emcee says the composer's Japanese name with a Western emphasis, putting his given name before his family name, but it's still distinctly Japanese and kicks up a little thrill in Yamamoto's chest. He's got a flute of champagne in each hand and a pouting date somewhere in the crowd when the man takes the stage and the world stops revolving so suddenly that Yamamoto loses his balance and both of the flutes slip from his fingers and crash to the floor.

He is not aware of the alcohol pooling around his shoes and seeping into the hems of his slacks. There's no more noise except for the sound of his own blood pounding against his eardrums.

His _clearly not_ _a_ prostitute is looking back at him from the stage, smirking as if he can actually see Yamamoto past the stage's bright lights. His hair, the hair that had mislead Yamamoto to believe he was an old man, is pulled back and shines in the spotlights as he moves, slipping his fitted jacket from his shoulders and rolling up his shirt cuffs. It's like he's moving in slow motion, like he and Yamamoto are the only two people in the room and have all the time in the world.

He can feel every single beat of his heart against his ribcage as those sinfully green eyes stay locked onto his and Yamamoto swears the man, this Gokudera Hayato, can feel them too. It feels like an eternity and it feels like the blink of an eye before his never was a prostitute finally turns to the baby grand and tosses his jacket over the bench. The blood red silk of his shirt stretches across his back and Yamamoto can see the shadow of his wing bones beneath the light. Gokudera gives Yamamoto one last lingering look over his shoulder then takes his seat and with a crash and a rush of wind that Yamamoto can almost feel, the world starts spinning again.

Everyone's clapping but he can't. His limbs feel heavy and foreign to his body, frozen in place. He can't tear his gaze away from the man in front of him and he doesn't know if it's because he's embarrassed or enraptured or just confused. He's clearly been duped but didn't he have an inkling of that when he woke up to find all of his money in place and untouched on the bedside table and the prostitute nowhere in sight?

He can feel the music in his veins the second it starts though, and it moves him, draws him forward like just the sight of the man's skin did before. It takes several long moments before he registers the presence at his side and even once he does he just assumes it's Haru until a fresh flute of champagne is physically placed into his hand. Startled, he tears his gaze away from the man at the piano and finds himself staring into sea- green eyes just shades away from the ones he was staring into only hours ago, obscured by a thin black veil neatly secured by flowers and pins into twisted ropes of rose-colored hair.

The woman is stunning and Yamamoto feels his stomach drop out and twist with jealousy. He'd forgotten about her, about the woman who hadn't really mattered when he hadn't known who Gokudera Hayato really was. Now she's standing next to him and he doesn't know how to feel.

"It's beautiful isn't it?" She asks him in Japanese and it seems so natural rolling off of her European tongue that he nearly misses it. Her voice is smooth and sensual and he feels inadequate next to her.

All he can do is nod, too lost in the music and afraid of his own emotions to speak.

"I told him to play from his heart tonight and it seems he listened to me for once. He sounds truly ethereal now that there's love in his music."

"L-love?" He stammers and she smiles as she sips her champagne.

"Do you have love, Yamamoto Takeshi?"

He opens his mouth to respond but there are no words. Does he have love? He doesn't know. He loves his father and he loves baseball but he doesn't think that's what she means. The look in her eyes is understanding and just a little bit sad.

"I don't think that Hayato knows either but it's in his music so it must be in his heart."

The man's given name seems too comfortable on her lips and Yamamoto knows that he doesn't have a right to be but he's jealous. He wants to say that name so lightly, feel it slip from his mouth like it was meant to be there.

"Aha… but doesn't he love you? You're his…"

"Sister." She supplies with a knowing smile before he can get it wrong. "I believe he loves me but sometimes _he_ forgets."

He barely hears the rest of her sentence over the intense rush of relief that is crashing his senses. Yamamoto can't imagine why, he doesn't even _know_ this man, but the fact that this beautiful woman standing next to him is _not_ a lover but a sibling is so intensely gratifying that he thinks it's entirely possible his heart may give out from how large it seems to have swelled.

He's sure that his grin is enough to split his face and if the look in her eyes is anything to go by, she is aware of how he feels. She raises her glass to him and he touches his own to hers without thinking. The compulsory swallow that follows is long and quenching and the bubbles go straight to his head.

"Kampai, Yamamoto Takeshi."

His smile is lopsided and his eyes are beginning to water.

"Kam-Kampai…" He looks at her expectantly even as her image sways and blurs before him.

"Bianchi." She offers.

"Kampai, Bianchi-chan." He slurs before a searing pain rips through his gut like a knife and brings him to his knees. He manages one last glance at the stage and sees Gokudera's eyes narrowed and glaring in his direction before the pain becomes too much and his world goes dark.


	3. La Parte Tre

**I know I've been really bad about replying to reviews and I'm really sorry about that. I'm graduating this semester, so I've been kind of distracted with school work and other real life responsibilities. I really appreciate all the reviews and the positive feedback and I hope that my distraction won't discourage you guys from reviewing in the future. I've also had some inquiries as to whether Gokudera is going to remain the seme the entire fic or not and, to be completely honest, I don't know. I'm writing this chapter by chapter so if that's what you want to see, don't get your hopes up but don't get them down either! Thank you again and enjoy chapter three!**

Hangovers in Italy are _not_ different. Yamamoto finds that out the hard way as consciousness tugs at his mind and drags him from blissful sleep. His head immediately sets to pounding to remind him of his overindulgence and he groans in discomfort. It takes him a few moments to work up the courage to open his eyes and then thankfully the room is dimly lit. He's nestled in a comfy bed, all white and fluffy like a cloud and it feels sinful against his bare skin when he stretches.

"Oh… no."

He's stripped down to his boxer briefs and he doesn't remember how he got there. He doesn't remember how he got to this room, _this_ room because as he looks around it becomes immediately clear even with the lack of direct light that this isn't _his_ room. It's larger, for one, and his bed doesn't face a giant bay of windows with a view of the Italian city lights that would probably make Haru weep.

With another groan he tears himself from the comfort of his personal cloud and pushes into a sitting position. The sheets pool in his lap and he grips his head in his hands for a second until the pounding subsides before trying to figure out just where he is.

"Che. Finally awake, then?"

"Wha?"

He turns his head toward the voice just a bit too fast and immediately regrets it, still clutching his pounding skull he grimaces and moans audibly. His stomach lurches in tandem with the constricting feeling on his brain and he makes a quick and empty, silent vow to never drink again. When his rebelling body calms down enough to allow him some semblance of movement again, he resumes his slow search for the source of the voice.

From what he can see, the room he is in must be one of the hotel's most luxurious suites. It's simple but beautiful, done in a theme of muted reds and striking white, trimmed with black. It's not the same as the other rooms, this one is personalized and he can just imagine for whom.

"There's water and antacids on the bedside table."

When that low, raspy voice hits his ears again, his gut twists but not with nausea. He follows the sound with his eyes and loses his breath. The composer, the prostitute, the man who knocked him flat on his ass with just a look… Yamamoto doesn't know how to categorize him anymore, but he's standing at the very edge of the big bay of windows, one hand gripping the thick, burgundy curtains, the other clutching a burning cigarette and resting at his hip.

The lights from outside the window bathe his pale skin in an array of colors that blink and dance across his bare chest and arms. _Bare_ chest. Yamamoto's mouth already felt as if he'd swallowed a handful of cottonballs but now, _now_ it's as if he hasn't tasted water in days. Gokudera Hayato is standing in front of him bearing an expression of nonchalance that completely contradicts the mad fluttering in Yamamoto's chest, only half dressed and a million times more arousing than the first time the ballplayer laid eyes on him, and he hadn't thought that possible.

He's slight but not frail, not nearly. His dress slacks hang low on his hips, sharp hipbones jutting out and laying shadows across his abdomen that lead Yamamoto's mind to stray to filthy imaginings. When Gokudera shifts to bring his cigarette to his lips, his skin stretches across his bones and makes Yamamoto forget about his headache entirely. The thick tangle of chains and a single leather thong bearing a large, silver crucifix ,jangle from around his neck when he takes a step forward, toward Yamamoto and the bed, and the ballplayers chest constricts immediately with anticipation.

Gokudera's bare feet make no sound on the plush carpet as he pads away from the window and it makes him appear almost feline as he moves. There is a predatory glint in his searing green eyes that instigates a war within Yamamoto, an immediate debate as to whether he should inch back or crawl forward. He picks up the glass from the bedside table as an alternative and the water tastes orgasmic on his tongue.

Yamamoto swallows audibly and licks his lips as his mind struggles with the ability to form coherent thoughts and then, hopefully, coherent sentences.

"You… you're…"

"Thinking seems to be a difficult endeavor for you. You should stop before you hurt yourself, idiot."

"But… haha, I know your name now." And Yamamoto smiles with that realization.

"Don't say that like it's such a prize." Gokudera snarls and takes a particularly violent drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke in Yamamoto's general direction. The smoke aggravates Yamamoto's already sensitive condition but he doesn't so much as grimace for fear of setting Gokudera off.

"It is, though. You wouldn't tell me the first time we… you know… but now I know and I'm glad."

"Tch… Idiot."

Yamamoto rolls his tongue in his mouth, forms syllables behind his lips without actually uttering them. When the words finally escape him they sound foreign but right at the same time.

"Gokudera Hayato."

Saying the man's name almost anchors him. He's truly aware of where he is and who he's with and how absolutely absurd the entire situation is. Gokudera looks practically murderous for a tick and Yamamoto is keenly aware of the man's fists clenched at his sides, cigarette dropped and forgotten and left to smolder out in the carpet. He thinks to keep speaking as if the silence was what was allowing Gokudera to think of trying to fight him, a fight he doesn't think he'd win in his condition. He still feels somewhat sick and markedly weaker than normal, even hangover normal, but Yamamoto's not a paranoid person so he doesn't think to blame anything other than the alcohol, of which he drank more than his share to be sure.

"Hayato…"

"No. Don't think you can talk to me with such familiarity." Gokudera snaps and Yamamoto has a brief flashback of following him the alley, uncertainty ringing through his senses at the man's sudden flash of anger.

"Oh." He sits back against the pillows, feeling awkward.

Gokudera seems to falter, the storm in his eyes clears and his fists loosen, and Yamamoto perks up just a bit.

"Che."

Yamamoto's mind struggles around his headache to decide what to do next. There are a million questions swirling around his consciousness and the air grows thick with tension while he tries to focus on just one. He realizes that it's probably best to figure out just how he got into this situation and how he got undressed at that, before he tries to understand any more of the mess of complexities that is Gokudera Hayato.

"So um… what happened?" He asks tentatively, not entirely sure he wants to know the answer in case it means he embarrassed himself in public and in front of Gokudera.

Gokudera appraises him and Yamamoto squirms under the attention, taking another sip of water as a distraction.

"You were poisoned and you collapsed in the ballroom."

"Po-poisoned?" Yamamoto stutters, incredulous. His memories are hazy at best but they cut off quite abruptly after seeing Gokudera take the stage and the world tilting realization that he'd somehow managed to mistake an apparently well known composer for a prostitute and then sleep with him on top of it.

"Yes, idiot." Gokudera glares at him, put out at being interrupted. "I saw you talking to my sister. Did she give you anything?"

Yamamoto furrows his brows as he thinks back. It's hard to do with all the pain but he tries valiantly.

"She gave me a glass of champagne…"

"And you fucking drank it, didn't you?"

"Well, she toasted me! It would have been rude not to. Besides, it was just champagne!"

"Fucking moron." Gokudera digs the heel of his hand into his forehead between his eyebrows.

"Where am I?" Yamamoto questions, feeling indignant at being called a moron for doing something completely innocuous and utterly expected of any reasonably polite person and suddenly wishing, just a little bit, that he was anywhere else.

"My suite."

"Yours." Yamamoto digests the information even though he already kind of expected that answer. This set of rooms is not done in the theme of the rest of the hotel and every inch of them screams of this enigma of a man that Yamamoto has only just met and knows very few truths about. But, even though it seems to fit, it doesn't make sense that this man should have rooms to match his personality… unless he lives there, but Haru said he lives in a mansion that overlooks the ocean…

"Yes mine. Fuck, I just said that."

Yamamoto raises a brow and observes Gokudera, trying to push past the lust that seems to go hand in hand with just the sight of him. It is possibly the most difficult thing he's ever had to do. Even with a hangover… or, the… well, he has no idea what the aftereffects of being poisoned are called. Could that be a hangover too? Even feeling like absolute _shit_, he wants Gokudera, wants to be pounded into the mattress all over again, especially now that there are fewer layers of clothing between them than there had been the last time.

Gokudera purses his lips in annoyance and a little bit of confusion at Yamamoto's sudden silence and immediately Yamamoto's gaze is drawn there. It doesn't make sense but he remembers the taste of cinnamon when he'd woken up the day before. Cinnamon. Gokudera looks like he tastes like cinnamon. Something spicy that burns your mouth but tastes good, too good to stop.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Yamamoto focuses his gaze on the perplexed face before him, amber eyes full of earnest, and leans forward just slightly.

"Can I kiss you?"

"What the _fuck_?" Gokudera startles then resumes his steady glare. "You wake up in a stranger's room, _half naked_, and they tell you that you've been _poisoned_ by someone intimately connected to them and you want a _kiss_? Are you really that fucking stupid?"

"Yes?" Yamamoto doesn't really need to think about it. Sure he's been poisoned, by Gokudera's sister if Gokudera's telling the truth, but he hasn't really done much of that in the less than twenty four hours that Yamamoto's been aware of his existence, plus he _feels_ hungover and horny and Gokudera is just standing there without a shirt on and those _hipbones _and, well, Yamamoto really wants to kiss him. He'll be willing to think about the consequences later when his head doesn't hurt so much and his cock isn't quite so hard.

"No! No kissing! I told you that already."

"You also told me you were a prostitute…"

"I never _said_ that. You just assumed, which I should find insulting."

"Ahaha, but you took money from me! _A lot_ of money."

Gokudera looks flustered and Yamamoto finds this to be inexplicably adorable and, consequently because it's Gokudera , even further arousing.

"I… It… I left it there! It was an experiment! To see just how stupid you really are."

Yamamoto thinks about this admission, wrinkling his brow even though it might provoke Gokudera to say something else about his intelligence.

"So… Gokudera knew who I was?

The vermillion tint staining Gokudera's cheeks is probably enough of an answer to that question and it makes Yamamoto's belly flood with warmth. It was still probably a coincidence that they'd run into each other, because how could Gokudera have known that Yamamoto would choose to go trolling in the Italian slums that day, at that time? Or that he was gay, because Yamamoto quite prides himself in not being flamboyant about it. He doesn't directly deny it but he doesn't give anyone a reason to ask him either.

Gokudera opens his mouth to respond but he doesn't have one, so instead he sets it into a grim line and silently fumes at the foot of the bed. Yamamoto smiles and crawls closer which only seems to make Gokudera angrier as he immediately sets to muttering a list of expletives regarding Yamamoto's character, intelligence, and his mother's pedigree. But Yamamoto just laughs and sits on his knees once he reaches the end of the bed, only a few inches separating his naked chest from Gokudera's. He reaches out and curls a finger around the tangle of chains sparkling against Gokudera's skin and uses his grip to pull the composer forward.

Gokudera falls silent and lets himself be led, lips parting in an almost invitation and heart hammering beneath his prominent ribcage. Yamamoto's heart beats in tandem and he completely forgets his headache in the heady sweep of arousal that takes him and pulls him under.

They're barely inches apart, centimeters, and Yamamoto can smell the spice on Gokudera's skin, can _feel_ the way that skin will move under his lips and then suddenly, a sharp knock sounds on the door sending Gokudera rocketing away from him. Yamamoto falls back onto the bed and groans in frustration as Gokudera hurls a slew of curses at the heavy wood entrance to his rooms.

The knock sounds again and Gokudera shouts at it, voice full of venom.

"The _fuck_ do you want?"

"Hayato, that isn't polite." The voice is muffled but Yamamoto recognizes it as Gokudera's sister's and his stomach lurches just a little.

"_Sis? _Go the fuck away, I'm busy."

"I would, Hayato, but Yamamoto's little actress friend is looking for him. She's quite upset."

"She overreacts." Yamamoto moans into the bedspread where he's buried his face. His cock aches and he's forced to grind it into the bedding to get just a hint of relief, hoping that Gokudera doesn't see him. He somehow doesn't think Gokudera would appreciate him humping the bed like a teenager.

"Tell the stupid woman that he's fine and she can go fucking worry about someone else!"

"Don't call me that!"

"THE FUCK!"

"Oh no."

"Hayato…"

"Takeshi-san!"

"He's _fine._ Go. The fuck. Away."

"Do not speak to Haru like that! Let me see Takeshi-san!"

"Dear, maybe we should just let the boys have some peace. Yamamoto did not seem to be feeling well at all at the reception. Hayato will take good care of him."

Bianchi's voice is soft on the other side of the door but Yamamoto's chest swells with hope and thanks to her. He doesn't really think she'd poisoned him anyway.

"No, no, no! I want to see him. I don't believe that horrible man in there could take care of anyone!"

"I am not horrible! Did you ever think that maybe he doesn't _want_ to see you?"

"Hahi! You are too, horrible and mean! Let me see Takeshi-san, _right now."_

Yamamoto groans and pushes away from the bed, determined to stop this clusterfuck of back and forths. His erection is straining quite prominently against the flimsy black cotton of his underwear, even after this entire exchange, and he has no idea where his clothes are and even less desire to put them back on. But he has to do something.

He sidles past Gokudera and places a hand against the solid oak of the door.

"Haru-chan? I'm fine, really. But I'm not exactly decent at the moment… so I can't come outside."

Gokudera looks at him incredulously and raises a fist, shaking it for emphasis as he hisses.

"Don't tell her that, idiot!"

"But Takeshi-san… he sounds mean."

Yamamoto just smiles at Gokudera.

"He's not so mean, Haru-chan. He said I could stay here as long as I need to. In fact, he's been taking care of me all night. He even sent my clothes out for dry cleaning. That's why I can't come outside."

"You bastard." Gokudera growls but he lowers his fist and Yamamoto can see the hint of a residual blush still gracing his cheeks.

"I'll come and find you just as soon as I'm feeling better, okay Haru-chan?"

There's silence on the other side of the door before a loud and obviously unhappy sigh and then Haru's voice. "As _soon_ as you feel better?"

"The very second." Yamamoto promises, fingers crossed behind his back.

"Hmph. Fine. But I still don't think he's very nice."

"Stupid wom- mmph!"

Yamamoto uses this opportunity to stop Gokudera from worsening the situation and to do what he's been wanting to do for what feels like eons. He pins Gokudera's back against the door and seals their mouths together, running his tongue along the seam of Gokudera's closed lips, tasting and feeling the burn against his taste buds.

Gokudera's hands float to his shoulders and push, but not hard enough to dislodge him and Yamamoto takes that as an invitation to press their bodies together. His erection knocks against Gokudera's stomach and sends a thrill through his limbs. He slips a leg between Gokudera's and pushes his thigh against the shorter man's crotch, just gently enough to earn a low moan and the parting of his lips. He slips his tongue through and runs it along the edge of Gokudera's teeth, coaxing the composer to respond.

Their tongues tangle roughly and with passion and Gokudera tastes exactly like Yamamoto thought he would, like tobacco and smoke and cinnamon. Gokudera's arms snake around Yamamoto's neck and his fingers clench in Yamamoto's hair, dragging and pulling and sending tingles of painful pleasure across Yamamoto's scalp. He feels Gokudera's nails slide along his sides, digging into his flesh, until they're resting just above the waistband of his briefs, his thumbs slipping just under the elastic, teasing.

Gokudera pushes his hips forward, his crotch rubs against Yamamoto's naked thigh and pushes the cotton up. The movement causes the composer's stomach to press tightly against Yamamoto's cock and the ballplayer gasps aloud and his entire body spasms.

"Oh… oh god. Gokudera." He pulls his mouth away from the composers and breathes, _pants, _heavily, cock twitching against Gokudera's hot, _hot _skin.

"I _told you_ no kissing." Gokudera hisses but his breath is coming just as heavily and his lips are wet and rosy.

"But I _want_ to kiss Gokudera."

"Fucking moron."

He shoves Yamamoto back against the bed, so hard that the edge catches his knees and he falls into the mattress and it catches him and lets him sink in. Gokudera climbs up and straddles his hips, the silk of his dress slacks stretching and beveling across his crotch, doing nothing to hide his own interest. He crawls across Yamamoto's body and lowers his mouth to the juncture of the ballplayer's shoulder and neck. He licks Yamamoto's skin, tasting the salt of his sweat and inhaling the musk of his cologne. He drags his hand across Yamamoto's ribs and closes his index finger and thumb on one hardened nub, pinching and tugging lightly. Yamamoto gasps and arches his back, pushing his chest up into Gokudera's hand.

"Fucking idiot." Gokudera mouths against his neck, twisting the sensitive skin of his nipple between his fingers.

"Go-Gokudera!" Yamamoto shouts breathily, not enough oxygen left in his lungs with all the panting to cause any alarm if it could have been heard through the walls.

Yamamoto loves having a name to call out, loves the way it slips through his lips and the way it tastes on his tongue.

"Roll over." It's a command, not a suggestion and definitely not a request. Yamamoto's eyes light up and he complies with all the eagerness of a puppy earning a bone. Gokudera slides off the bed and lands silently on his feet while Yamamoto twists onto his stomach and thrusts his hips into the air.

The ballplayer's ass lines up with his chest and he only needs to brace his knees against the mattress to lower himself comfortably. He hooks his thumbs in the elastic and swiftly yanks the cotton down Yamamoto's thighs, baring him and Yamamoto's skin prickles with the exposure. Gokudera runs his hands across Yamamoto's globes and squeezes once before pulling them apart and suddenly slipping his tongue between them.

"Gokudera!" Yamamoto shouts and buries his face in his arms to muffle the sound. He spreads his legs unconsciously, the movement only stopped by the article of clothing still wrapped around his knees.

Gokudera pulls the fleshy mounds further apart, exposing Yamamoto, and dives in again, probing with his tongue. Yamamoto squirms beneath him, pressing back in a desperate attempt to get Gokudera's tongue to delve in deeper, to press against him harder. Gokudera reaches with the index and middle finger of his right hand and presses them against the stretch of flesh just behind Yamamoto's scrotum. He is rewarded with a breathy gasp and quivers of pleasure in the man's thighs. Yamamoto fists his hands in the bed sheet and lurches forward when Gokudera stabs him with the thick wet muscle in his mouth.

"Gokudera please… _please_." Yamamoto sobs into the bedding, biting his forearm almost hard enough to draw blood in an effort to keep from screaming.

Satisfied, Gokudera pulls away, leaving Yamamoto shaking and struggling to draw full breaths. He pads over to the bedside table, ignores the forgotten alka seltzer on top of it and pulls the drawer open. He pulls out a condom with one hand and wrestles his belt open with the other. Yamamoto slumps against the mattress in the background, rolls over onto his back so that he can watch Gokudera and rubs his legs together in an effort to divest himself of his underwear. His erection strains upwards and it's all he can do not to wrap a hand around it and jack himself off. He can wait, because if he waits Gokudera will touch him and that will be so much better.

He licks his lips as he watches Gokudera's pants slip from his hips and pool on the ground, the rich silk flowing over the composer's body like water. He's not wearing any undergarments and if Yamamoto could be any harder than he already is, that knowledge would make it happen. He groans and can't stop himself from just brushing his fingertips along the base of his cock. Gokudera's body is tight, all smooth lines and sharp angles. His eyes sparkle like a cat's with the reflection from the city lights as they rake over Yamamoto's body with approval. Yamamoto wipes his mouth with the back of the hand he's not using to touch himself just in case he's drooling as he watches Gokudera stalk towards him, cock in hand.

He arches his back and pulls his knees towards his chest. He's wet with Gokudera's saliva but he isn't prepared so he sticks two fingers in his own mouth and coats them thoroughly before trailing them down his body and circling himself with his fingertips. As soon as he sees the hunger on Gokudera's face, he presses in and bucks against his own hand. He starts right off with two fingers and relishes the burn of being stretched immediately. Yamamoto keeps their eyes locked as he finger fucks himself, brushing his fingertips along the underside of his shaft. When the tip of his middle finger brushes against his prostate he chokes on his breath and throws his head back.

"Fuck… fuck me. Gokudera, fuck me." He begs and Gokudera smirks but he's not so aloof that Yamamoto's wanton display doesn't affect him and Yamamoto can see that. Gokudera's eyes are wide and lust-filled and his cock is hard and ready.

He crawls onto the bed and braces himself over Yamamoto with his arms below the ballplayer's knees and hisses when Yamamoto slips the fingers out and wraps them around Gokudera's latex clad shaft. Yamamoto guides him in, the pressure even better this time because of the position and the time they feel they're allowed to spend. Gokudera presses in slow, prolonging the pleasure and the burn, stretching Yamamoto without hurting him.

Yamamoto shifts his legs so they're draped over Gokudera's shoulders and uses his heels to pull Gokudera forward. The stretch aches when Gokudera leans in and presses his thighs closer to his stomach but it's a good ache and it only enhances the feeling of Gokudera filling him. Once hilted, Gokudera's face goes feral and Yamamoto's heart races with eager anticipation. He reaches up and twines his fingers in Gokudera's hair, pulls his head down despite the increased pressure it puts on his legs, and crashes their lips together. It's the cue that Gokudera needs to begin to moving, not that he was ever waiting for permission, and he pulls out and then snaps in hard. Yamamoto moans into his mouth and pulls his hair, begging Gokudera to do it again without saying any words.

Gokudera bites at Yamamoto's bottom lip as he thrusts, angling his hips as best he can to graze Yamamoto's prostate. Every other thrust seems to hit and Yamamoto squirms beneath him with pleasure, crying out when Gokudera's lips aren't there to stop him. Gokudera's stomach drags across Yamamoto's cock with each movement and the added pleasure builds up inside of him, ballooning beneath his ribcage and boiling up from his belly.

His headache is long forgotten in favor of the ecstasy of Gokudera inside of him and on top of him. It doesn't take long for Yamamoto to explode with it. His ankles cross behind Gokudera's head and he clenches violently as he comes. He throws his head back and shouts with his orgasm, hitting the high note with Gokudera buried deep inside of him. Gokudera buries his face in the space between Yamamoto's neck and shoulder as he holds himself against the ballplayer.

"_Bastard_." He growls as his orgasm rips through him, drawn out by the rhythmic clenching caused by the aftershocks of Yamamoto's. It isn't an angry exclamation, just empty words carried aloft by an exhalation of carbon dioxide against Yamamoto's skin.

He slumps on top of Yamamoto for a moment to catch his breath then realizes how uncomfortable it must be for the man below him and slides out. Yamamoto lowers his legs and groans a little with the ache in his hips then rolls his head to the side to watch Gokudera beside him. He's on his back, breathing heavy, sweat glistening in the cavity between his ribcage.

They lay there in silence, the lights from the city playing over their skin like paint on canvas. Yamamoto inches his hand towards Gokudera, just barely brushing his knuckles against the composer's hip. Gokudera immediately flinches away and Yamamoto frowns and starts to pull his hand back but then the Italian relaxes and, without ever looking at him, lays the back of his hand against Yamamoto's. It's not cuddling but it's contact and Yamamoto doesn't really think he should have expected more. He keeps his eyes on Gokudera's profile and smiles.

"I want to know you, Gokudera Hayato." He whispers and the only response he gets is the slight twitch of Gokudera's fingers against his and the slow intertwining of their pinky fingers.


	4. La Parte Quattro

They're sitting in this little restaurant in the heart of the city. It's dark and the air is thick and if he slouches even slightly, his knees brush against hers. So he's got to keep his posture ramrod straight and after about a half an hour of this, he's really starting to resent the hotel concierge for assuming that, when he'd asked for reservations for dinner for two, he'd wanted something romantic. Then again, from what he's experienced so far, romance and sex seem to be synonymous and _everywhere _in Italy_. _

They've been sitting in relative and uncomfortable silence for the better part of dinner and when his knee hits hers and he jerks back guiltily for the umpteenth time, she gets this stern look on her face like his teachers used to when they'd catch him sleeping during lectures and it doesn't take a genius to realize that he's in for it.

The entire dinner was supposed to an apology of sorts, for disappearing from the reception and making her worry, and spending the entire night and a good chunk of the day in the room of a relative stranger and making her worry again. He's not interested in her romantically, not interested in girls at all, but she's nice and she cares and he thinks she would make a great friend. But coming out to someone who views you as a potential love interest is always awkward and made even more so when you've woken up alone in the bed of someone _you_ view as a potential love interest on the very same day. And for the second time in forty eight hours, no less.

Haru drops her fork and crosses her arms over her chest. The utensil clatters loudly against the glass plate and Yamamoto cringes inwardly when a handful of patrons turn to stare in the direction of their table.

"Takeshi-san," she starts and he bows his head, waiting for the tirade. He realizes too late that taking her out for this conversation may have not been the best plan of action. He was gambling on the hope that she would be understanding and accepting and _not loud_. He's becoming very aware, very quickly that things are not probably going to go as smoothly as all that.

"Ah, Haru-chan. I…"

"Are you gay?"

He chokes on his own saliva and raises his eyes incredulously, completely unprepared for the question. Not that he should be, because this conversation was supposed to be the focal point of the entire night, but he was _not_ expecting for it to go this way.

"Uh… Haha. Um…"

Haru's eyes narrow a little more and he's not sure what it is exactly that she's mad about, being lied to or his sexuality or both.

"I, um…" He clears his throat and averts his eyes and reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. "Aha, yes. I am. I'm sorry."

His shoulders sag and her expression softens almost immediately and she unfolds her arms so that she can lay a compassionate hand over his.

"Was it that obvious?" He asks sheepishly, practically preparing to be told that there's a media scandal in his immediate future.

"No, but Haru thought it was awfully suspicious that you spent the entire night with a man you said you'd never met before instead of with her. Such an awful man too. At least Haru is nice." Her lips purse into a dejected pout and Yamamoto can barely stifle a chuckle. She _is_ nice and he feels bad for leading her on but he couldn't have helped falling for Gokudera. He's pretty sure he fell in love with Gokudera the second he laid eyes on him.

"I thought you said he was romantic?"

"Hmph," She turns her face away from his trembling smile and chews her lip. "Who knows if that story is even true? There are plenty of other stories about him too. Haru just liked that one best but, now that she's had the displeasure of speaking with him, she is entirely unsure that someone so rude could be capable of something so beautiful."

Yamamoto's already uneasy grin slips from his face at her words. "Other stories?"

Haru nods emphatically, eyes widening. "Of course! Were you even listening in the car last night, Takeshi-san?"

Yamamoto cocks his head to the side and evades the question by pretending she didn't even ask it.

"Takeshi-san, he's in the mafia! He's probably a killer!"

He sits back and lets his hand slip out from beneath hers. The mafia? It takes him a few seconds before things begin to click in his head, pieces coming together like a puzzle; the personalized hotel suite, the hotel heirs with mafia connections that Haru had been talking about. He sets his jaw and furrows his brow, not quite willing to sully his rapidly growing affection for the other man with this sudden news.

"Haru-chan, you don't know any of that for a fact, do you? All those other stories, they could just be rumors? You don't know him."

Haru furrows her own finely groomed brows in turn and pouts a little more. "Neither do you, Takeshi-san!"

Her outburst draws attention to them again and Yamamoto slumps in his seat; embarrassed and frustrated and not even caring that their legs are touching anymore. Haru blushes and covers her mouth as her gaze bounces around the room, before laying her hand back atop his.

"I'm sorry. It's just… I don't want to see you get hurt."

And then the guilt is back. He turns his hand beneath hers so that their palms touch and squeezes. "I'm really sorry, Haru-chan. I didn't mean to hurt you. If I weren't… you know… you'd be…"

She smiles sadly and pats his hand before nodding; then she slips both hands into her lap and pulls out her napkin, laying it on the table and indicating that she's finished with her meal. With a sudden determination, she smiles and slaps the table.

"Haru thinks she ate too much. Let's walk back to the hotel!"

"Ah… okay. Haha, sounds good!" He smiles and fishes in his wallet, still bulging with the €3,000 he didn't spend on Gokudera, for enough money to cover the tab and then he stands and offers her his arm.

Haru wraps her slim fingers around his elbow and stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He smiles like it's all okay, that warm welcoming grin that always seems to get him out of trouble, but his stomach's doing somersaults and he's just barely finding the strength to keep his recent dinner down.

"Will you tell me what happened last night?" She questions tentatively, her heels clicking a soothing rhythm on the concrete. "Did you meet him at the reception?"

Yamamoto is immediately thankful for the dark as he blushes. "I, ah… I don't really remember."

He's not about to confide to Haru where and when he _actually _met Gokudera. The shocked look on her face makes him think twice about the answer he ended up giving though, and he blusters as he tries to backtrack quickly.

"I mean… I was pretty drunk, haha. Ah, I mean… I _was_ drunk but… I liked him and I went up to his room and then it all kind of hit me. I couldn't let you know where I was because I couldn't do much of anything really. Hungover, you know?"

"Haru understands." She says quietly, squeezing his arm.

But she doesn't, not really, and how could she? _He_ doesn't even have a clue.

The night air is balmy and smells like the sea and it lulls Yamamoto into a false sense of calm. Haru is chattering at his side about things so inane he can't even _try_ to listen and he knows it's just for the sake of keeping silence from falling on them and making things awkward again. Haru's voice provides a pleasant background of white noise for his own thoughts which are so jumbled and half-formed he can barely make sense of them.

He doesn't want to believe that Gokudera is anything more than a composer but there are so many things he doesn't know and so many things that don't make sense. He never found out why Gokudera pretended to be a prostitute when they first encountered each other and he'd only hoped that the reason he woke up in Gokudera's rooms after getting sick was because Gokudera wanted him there and not some other, more sinister reason. Until now, he hadn't even been sure the mafia even existed anymore.

Yamamoto doesn't know if he should be angry, wary, or if he should just play dumb for the sake of his own happiness. Playing dumb is his primary go-to reaction but he's beginning to realize just how much trouble he might get in if he doesn't try to take some control of the situation he's found himself in. He already knows that things could have gone much worse with Haru and he's not so optimistic that he thinks he can keep getting lucky this way. He's never been one to worry overtly about his public image but that's only because he's never really put himself in the position to compromise it. Now he's worried that he's fallen too deeply to climb back out if he finds that he has to.

He's brought back to reality by a sudden, tight squeeze of Haru's hands on his bicep. The night is still quiet but as clarity finds him, he hears the faint rumbling of two men speaking somewhere in the distance. The area looks vaguely familiar, the mouth of one alley nearly banging a gong of recognition in his head.

He didn't realize it on the ride over, too preoccupied with coming out to Haru, but these streets are the ones he'd trudged back to the hotel the night before, lost in sexual satisfaction and with only enough sanity left to make sure he got out of the slums. The alley that Gokudera had led him down when Yamamoto didn't know his name is directly ahead of them and at the mouth of it two men are deep in discussion. Muted Italian flows from their mouths and Yamamoto can't tell if they're arguing or engaged in a lover's discussion. Their faces are inches from each other and while the shorter one is wearing a scowl and fisting his hand in the other's neck tie in order to drag him down to level, the taller one looks amused and his hand is draped casually over the shorter man's shoulder with something that looks very much to Yamamoto like affection.

Yamamoto's stomach knots so suddenly he's afraid he'll be sick, but he can't tear his eyes away from the scene. The taller man is devastatingly handsome and clearly older, by a decade _at least_, than his partner and Yamamoto, for that matter. He leans into the younger man with an open ease that could either be a sign of some previously established relationship between the two or the result of the man's obvious intoxication, or both.

Yamamoto has never wished more than this second that he knew how to speak Italian. He _needs_ to know what the two men are saying to each other. He needs to know whether the scowl on the younger man's face is one of impatience and anger or just a cover, just a front for the way he really feels. When the man's head falls forward an inch and a curtain of silver hair shifts with gravity to obscure his face and Yamamoto's gut kicks, he realizes almost automatically that's he's not climbing back out of this hole he's fallen into.

"Go-Gokudera…" He chokes out but only Haru hears him.

He watches as Gokudera's fist loosens around the man's tie when the man closes the miniscule amount of distance between them and presses a sloppy kiss to his forehead. Yamamoto sees it all and forgets how to breathe. His jaw goes slack and he just stares at the scene without blinking, like he can't believe it. Haru pulls at his arm, tries to pull him forward and away from the display but he's frozen to the spot.

He knows where that alley leads. He's _been_ there. And the worst part of it all is how he can feel himself getting aroused by just the memory and the way Gokudera looks even while he's pretty sure he's watching Gokudera being propositioned by another man. He tries to swallow but his throat is closed tight and he's starting to feel lightheaded. He's barely even registering Haru's presence at his side anymore.

"Takeshi-san!"

Haru's outburst doesn't startle Yamamoto so much as it gets the attention of the two men that he's watching so intently. Without separating, they both turn their heads immediately in Yamamoto's direction, a look of shock on one face, idle amusement on the other.

In his surprise, Gokudera drops the older man's tie and just stares openmouthed at Yamamoto. The older man smirks and straightens up, smoothing his palms down his suit front as he takes easy steps towards the Japanese couple. He keeps his lecherous gaze trained on Haru for the most part and she tries to melt into Yamamoto's side in response as the man gets closer. He's still a few feet away when his gaze flits to Yamamoto and recognition alights in his eyes.

He stops short and a wide grin splits his handsome face as his eyes rake over Yamamoto. Fixing his tie, he licks his lips and glances back at Gokudera before addressing the composer… prostitute… mafia man… in heavily accented English, clearly speaking for his sudden audience and not the other Italian.

"Ahh Hayato! Isn't this that, hmm, what's his name? Yamamoomoo? That football player you've got the poster of in your room?" There's an abundance of mirth dancing in the man's eyes and Yamamoto is bright enough to know that someone is being made fun of but he's just not sure if it's him or Gokudera.

Gokudera sputters indignantly for a long second and his face turns a brilliant shade of cherry red. Yamamoto's thoughts don't even bother to linger on the fact that this man has intentionally mocked him, choosing to race straight to the fact that somewhere there's a room belonging to Gokudera with _his_ picture in it and this man has seen it while Yamamoto has not. He narrows his eyes at the stranger and mentally debates the pros and cons of knocking him out.

"Who are you?" He growls out and even _he_ is surprised by the venom in his voice. "Aha ha, um… Sorry, Yamamoto Takeshi, er, Takeshi Yamamoto." Yamamoto holds out his hand for an awkward handshake as he tries to stumble through introducing himself and reconciling the conflicting urge to attack the man with his overall friendly nature.

"Ahh Yama_moto_. That's it." The man says with a flourish as she shakes Yamamoto's hand and makes moony eyes at Haru.

"Shamal, you fucker." Gokudera finally manages to choke out once his head looks ready to explode with embarrassment and fury.

"Now Hayato, don't be impolite. We have beautiful company," he looks pointedly at Haru then shoots a sidelong glance at Yamamoto, "and a very tall Asian man. What are you? 195 cm?"

"190." Yamamoto is shocked to realize that the answer did not come from his open mouth but from Gokudera, who looks mortified at his own outburst.

"Honestly, kid. You really are too much." The man looks at Yamamoto, smirking. "I tell him he's too old to be idolizing ballplayers anymore. I think he must have more… _personal_ uses for it. I prefer the fairer sex, myself." With a conspiratorial wink, he turns his attentions back to Haru, who is wide-eyed and shaking like a cartoon woodland creature and looks seconds away from stabbing the man with her stiletto heel.

Gokudera looks as if he wishes he could drop dead in the middle of the street and when Yamamoto meets those glittering green eyes that first drew him in, Gokudera blanches and snarls and finally remembers how to function properly. He stalks forward and grabs the older man by the elbow, yanking him away from Haru.

"Come on, you perverted old man." He hisses, looking down and away and anywhere but at Yamamoto.

"But Hayatooooo," the man begins to whine like a child, his breath stinking of fermented grape. "We've only just begun to get to know each other. And you haven't even formally introduced me to your boyfriend."

The man is drunk, it's obvious, but there's a sharp glint in his eye that confuses Yamamoto. There's something not quite right about the whole situation, about _any_ situation he's been a part of in the last few days, and he's starting to feel a little wary. He's beginning to realize that this isn't some joyride in the love bus, but that, somehow, he's gotten himself tangled up in something that is so far over his head, he couldn't see it pass if he had binoculars.

He is hopelessly, utterly, _ridiculously_ infatuated with Gokudera Hayato, a man who has done nothing but play him and lie to him and… give him the best sex of his life… since the moment they met. Yamamoto knows he should be angry or suspicious but he's just a whole lot of jealous and a little bit on cloud nine because of the way the older man just called him Gokudera's boyfriend.

Gokudera drags the man away, all the while grumbling a slew of obscenities regarding the man's mother and his ability to perform sexually, under his breath. Yamamoto watches the pair disappear into the alley with a heavy gaze. When Gokudera tosses one last look over his shoulder and catches Yamamoto's eye, Yamamoto's heart skips a beat at the furious blush that blooms across Gokudera's pale cheeks and the way he yanks on the older man's arm just a little too roughly in his flustered need to get away. Yamamoto raises a hand to the back of his neck out of habit and realize,s after he's already started scratching, that something's bit him.

xXx

It's still dark when Gokudera slips out of the little, alley apartment, a scowl permanently affixed to his face after the night's events.

"Don't worry Hayato! He won't be going anywhere anytime soon." Shamal calls out after him, giving him cause to turn around.

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" He queries, wary confusion written plainly across his features.

Shamal laughs and drains the last sip of wine out of his glass. A buxom brunette falls into his lap with an ear-grating giggle and bottle in hand, spilling red wine across the floor in her attempt to balance and pour at the same time.

"Thanks to Maria, he's going to have some really serious digestive problems in about forty-eight hours. Not contagious, don't worry, but he won't be fit for travel for days."

"Who's Roberta?" The brunette questions, eyes narrowed.

"A mosquito, my dear. No one for you to worry about." Shamal waves away the inquiry with a charming smile and the girl just eats it up, giggling again and squirming on his lap, which in turn brings a wide grin to his face.

Gokudera snorts in disgust and turns on his heel. "You're worse than Bianchi!" He shouts over his shoulder, the brunette's question of 'Who's Bianchi?' floating on the night air behind him.

xXx

A sudden pounding on his door wakes him from a fitful sleep and it takes him a second to orient himself before he realizes where he is. The room is pitch dark and a quick glance at the glowing numbers on the bedside clock tells him that it's 3:30 in the morning. The pounding sounds again and he groans and mumbles something that doesn't even sound to _him_ like 'Coming' and starts to struggle to slip free of the linens.

Yamamoto swipes a hand across his face and through his hair as if it would even begin to smooth it down and reaches for the door with only one eye fully opened. The light from the hallway attacks his senses and he has to squint to make out the features of the person in front of him. Gokudera's fist is still poised for another knock and his mouth drops open in an awed gape that Yamamoto doesn't understand, not that he really cares.

"Gokudera!" His smile is more blinding than the sun and Gokudera fidgets, clearly uncomfortable being able to make someone so damn happy just by showing up.

When Gokudera comes back to himself he places both hands flat against Yamamoto's chest, the cold metal of his rings causing Yamamoto's nipples to harden under his palms and both of them to flush, and shoves the taller man out of the doorway and back into the dark room.

"Put some fucking clothes on, idiot!" He hisses. "You can't just go around opening doors looking like that."

Yamamoto glances down at himself even though it's too dark to see his own hands and remembers that he's only wearing boxers. "Haha, but Gokudera, you've seen me in less than this."

"Tha- that's not the point! _Anyone _could have seen… oh nevermind! Just get dressed. We have to go to the hospital."

"The hospital? Why? Is someone hurt?"

"_You're_ sick." Gokudera flips on a light and starts rooting around in the closet for an outfit for Yamamoto.

"Um… but I feel fine." Yamamoto fights the urge to laugh and scratches at the back of his neck, only remembering the bug bite after he reignites the itch.

Gokudera peers at him queerly and points. "What are you doing? Why are you scratching yourself there?"

"It's just a bug bite, Gokudera. I'm fine."

Gokudera storms toward him and grabs his wrist, yanking his fingernails away from the inflamed area. "Don't scratch it! You're spreading the poison, you idiot! You need to see a doctor, a _real_ doctor, not some drunk quack that meddles in other people's love lives and thinks he can fix everything with a pillbox filled with bugs.

"But Gokudera," Yamamoto closes his fingers around Gokudera's hand when the other man starts to move away again and pulls him close. "I _feel fine._"

Gokudera glares up at him but doesn't try to pull his hand loose. "You're an _idiot_."

To Yamamoto this is an invitation to move in. He pulls Gokudera closer, until their chests are touching, and slides his free hand behind the shorter man's head, digging his fingers into the silver tresses and relishing the way they slide softly against his skin. He takes Gokudera's mouth in a hungry, hard kiss and probes past pale lips with his tongue, searching for a taste of the man from earlier.

Gokudera smells like smoke and he tastes like an ashtray and heady Italian wine and the ever underlying hint of cinnamon that drives Yamamoto mad. There's nothing that shouldn't be there and this just makes Yamamoto clutch him tighter as if his own senses are lying to him. Gokudera moans into his mouth and grasps at the bare skin of Yamamoto's chest, raking his fingernails across already pebbled nipples and drawing a groan out of Yamamoto's throat.

Yamamoto keeps his grip on Gokudera tight and unrelenting and slowly walks them toward the bed, distracting his lover with his mouth and the hot press of their bodies together. When the edge of the mattress forces Gokudera's knees to buckle, Yamamoto throws him down and crawls over him, caging the smaller man against the fabric with his own body. Gokudera's eyes go wide when he realizes that he doesn't have control over the situation and Yamamoto smirks.

"Idiot! Get the fuck off of me!" Gokudera tries to shout but Yamamoto muffles it with his lips and grinds his hips against Gokudera's crotch, letting the other man feel the outline of his erection through the thin cloth of his boxers and Gokudera's jeans. Gokudera's eyes sort of roll back in his head and he grunts and lifts his hips off the bed, trying to keep the heat.

"You keep playing with my head, Gokudera. I don't like it. You can't always have control." Yamamoto whispers against his neck as he kisses and licks his way to the neckline of Gokudera's thin, black undershirt. He sits up a bit to admire the composer's outfit and smirks. "You yell at me for opening my door in my boxers but you go out in public dressed like this. You look like a _whore_." He whispers against Gokudera's collarbone and Gokudera _shivers._

His jeans ride so low on his hips that Yamamoto can feel a few sparse hairs already beginning to curl against his thumb when he brushes his fingertips across the exposed patch of skin between the hemline of Gokudera's wifebeater and his thick, studded belt. Gokudera writhes underneath him and digs his fingernails into the thick flesh of Yamamoto's muscled shoulders. Yamamoto slips his fingers beneath the thin cotton and slides his hand up Gokudera's side, taking the shirt with him and bunching it up underneath the smaller man's armpits. He admires Gokudera's bared chest and ducks his head to lick at a pretty pink nipple. He presses his lips to the sensitive skin and wedges one hand between them to cup Gokudera's cock through his pants.

"Are you?" He hisses against Gokudera's nipple. "Do you get your kicks fucking people for money?"

Gokudera whines and arches under him, cock throbbing against his palm. "Takeshi!"

Yamamoto stops and widens his eyes in surprise. Gokudera stares back at him, eyes heavy lidded with lust but with a little clarity beginning to creep back in. He's panting and squirming, his erection still cupped firmly in Yamamoto's hand, but Yamamoto can see the realization hit him.

"Say it again." He demands and when Gokudera just stares at him, he lowers his head and bites the man's flesh just above his heart before demanding, "Say it again!"

"Fuck! Takeshi!" Gokudera shouts and digs his fingernails into Yamamoto's skin until he draws blood.

Raw lust like he's never experienced rushes through Yamamoto at the sound of his name from Gokudera's lips and his dick twitches violently against Gokudera's thigh. He removes his hand from the bulge in Gokudera's pants and roughly pushes at the elastic waistband of his own underwear. When his cock springs free of the cotton confines, he gasps and rubs it against the rough denim covering Gokudera's thigh. He struggles with Gokudera's belt buckle as he dry humps the man's leg and sucks at any bare space of skin he can reach with his mouth that hasn't already been marked.

He's so mad and so horny and so desperate for this man that he can barely concentrate on anything other than the awkward undulating he's doing against Gokudera's still clothed body. Each new mark is a claim of ownership, something that will be seen every time Gokudera strips for a new partner. He thinks of the handsome stranger when he's finally able to thrust his hand into the heat of Gokudera's crotch and he wraps his fingers around Gokudera's shaft a little tighter than he initially means to but Gokudera almost screams with pleasure at the rough treatment.

He shudders as heat begins to coil in his belly but he doesn't want to come like this. He wants to come with Gokudera inside of him, wants to give Gokudera a reason to want only him. He crawls down Gokudera's slim body and Gokudera wiggles his hips invitingly as Yamamoto pulls the waist of his skinny jeans over his hips and down to his knees. Yamamoto licks out to taste the sweat-salty skin at the base of Gokudera's cock and his fingers follow, closing around the shaft and squeezing the organ where his tongue has abandoned. When he gets to the head, he swipes his tongue across the slit and chuckles when Gokudera writhes wildly above him and has to fist his hands in the sheets for lack of a better place to put them.

"_God_ Takeshi. Fuck, fuck you." He moans at the ceiling. Yamamoto squeezes him tighter and nips at his thigh with his teeth before he prepares to swallow the man whole.

"Say that you're mine." He whispers, breath tickling the fine hair on Gokudera's leg.

"Wha-what?" Gokudera tries to look at him but Yamamoto won't meet his eyes. He swirls his tongue around the head of Gokudera's cock and fits his mouth over it. He licks and sucks and tries to get as much saliva on the organ as he can. Gokudera rocks his hips forward and throws his head back and all but forgets the command as he's lost in a haze of pleasure.

When Yamamoto comes up for air, Gokudera's cock is dripping with spit and oozing pre-cum. Yamamoto kicks his legs to divest himself of his boxers then crawls back over Gokudera, positioning himself over the head of the other man's cock. He stares at the pretty, flushed face of his lover; parted pink lips and glowing green eyes. Gokudera looks confused and anticipatory and _so aroused_ as he waits for Yamamoto's next move. He's completely given up on taking control and that knowledge only turns Yamamoto on more.

"Say that you're mine. _Say it_." Yamamoto demands, inching himself closer to Gokudera's cock slowly.

"The-the fuck?" Yamamoto glares at him and halts his progress and Gokudera chokes on a needy sob. "I'm yours! I'm yours, just, fuck, _Takeshi!_"

With a gleeful smile, Yamamoto sinks down on Gokudera's shaft and takes him to the root in one movement. It burns but it's _so good_ and Gokudera's _his_ and the memory of the older man calling him Gokudera's boyfriend rushes through his mind and it all feel so amazing that he can barely contain it.

"Yo-you idiot! I'm not wearing a condom!" Gokudera pants beneath him as Yamamoto begins to ride, strong thighs straining with the effort of lifting himself.

Yamamoto catches Gokudera eyes and holds them, pouring his soul into his irises. "I'm clean."

It's a challenge. A threat. It's a demand for some sort of truth from the man below him. Gokudera's mouth creases into a determined line and he rocks his hips forward, _hard_, and nails Yamamoto's prostate. Yamamoto sees white and howls and has to brace himself against Gokudera before he can move again. Gokudera digs his fingertips into Yamamoto's hips and holds him steady before slamming into him again.

"I'm _clean_." Gokudera snarls and in one instant, he's taken control back but Yamamoto doesn't mind so much anymore.

Gokudera lets go of one hip to wrap slim fingers around Yamamoto's leaking cock and drives his fist upwards, wrenching a strangled cry from Yamamoto as he loses control and comes. He collapses against Gokudera's chest and clenches around the man's cock, swiftly drawing out Gokudera's orgasm after a few more deep thrusts. They lay there panting against each other until Yamamoto starts to shiver and he finally, reluctantly, shifts off of Gokudera. The composer watches him with wary eyes and Yamamoto smiles sheepishly.

"Sorry about all of that." He mumbles, blushing as he recalls his aggression.

Gokudera just shakes his head and lunges forward, pushing Yamamoto onto his back. "You're an idiot."

And then Gokudera kisses him, slow and deep.


	5. La Parte Cinque

The first thing he realizes, as the early morning light struggles to stream in from behind the thick hotel curtains, is he's horny. That isn't really a surprise considering the fact that he's a member of the male of the species and waking up with morning wood is a regular occurrence. The warm body at his back is an excellent addition to this situation, meaning he won't have to jerk himself off in the shower like usual because Gokudera has actually stayed the night and will, hopefully, be willing to do that for him. The second thing he realizes, after doing a mental dance of victory, shatters all of his morning cheer to Hell.

His head is pounding. It doesn't just hurt. It's not a headache. It is ten migraines slammed together, bouncing off of each other inside of his skull. He groans and starts to double over and that's all it takes for his stomach to rebel at the movement and threaten to vacate his body by way of his throat. He slips from the bed with jerky movements that alternately make his head pound anew and jostle his dancing esophagus. It takes every bit of strength that he's got to make it to the bathroom before there are black dots floating in front of his eyes and he's upending what feels like every mouthful of food he's had since he's been in this country, into the toilet.

By the time he's done, and that's a tentative term, there's a cold sweat broken out on his skin and his head is pounding so viciously and so sharply, he's convinced he's dying. He flushes the toilet and lays his forehead against the cool porcelain of the seat. He'd love to brush his teeth because his mouth officially tastes like a garbage truck but, at the moment, that is a far-fetched dream. The absolute worst part of it all, and he has no idea how this is even biologically possible and even less energy to think about it, is that he's still hard. He's so hard that it's bordering on painful and not the kind of painful hard-on described in the really smutty gay romance novels he secretly reads, _actually_ painful.

He pushes his crotch into the smooth porcelain at the base of the toilet, hoping it will have the same effect there as it's marginally having on the war raging in his cranium, but it's a wasted effort. The light pressure against his cock head brings tears to his eyes and he whimpers as his grip on the toilet seat goes white-knuckled.

"Yamamoto?"

He can't bring himself to look in the direction of Gokudera's voice, can't even bring himself to feel embarrassed about being seen like this.

"Oh fuck. Oh shit. Yamamoto. Fuck."

Yamamoto just whimpers again in response, rolling his forehead across the toilet seat and bringing his hand up to gently palm his own cock. He squeezes his eyes shut against the moisture building in them, sighing slightly when a few errant tears slip out and slide over his cheekbones.

"Fucking bastard!" Gokudera hisses and slides to his knees, crawling across the floor until he's kneeling by Yamamoto's side, sliding long, cool fingers between his forehead and the toilet and slipping one arm around his waist. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to slit his throat and then blow him up before he has a chance to bleed out and then blow him up again just for good measure. Fuckin' shit."

Yamamoto doesn't have the capabilities left to even try to listen to Gokudera's mutterings. He just leans into the welcome pressure of the other man's arm at his back and tries to remember to keep breathing. Gokudera's thumb rubs soft circles at the small of his back, over the swell of his ass, the juncture of his waist and hip. It's soothing so Yamamoto tries to focus on the feel of the rough pad of Gokudera's digit against his skin. He takes deep, shaky breaths and moves his own fingers lightly over his throbbing member.

"Gokudera," he gasps out, "hurts."

He doesn't say what hurts and Gokudera could think he's talking about any part of his body or all of it at the same time, but then he notices the slight tremor in Yamamoto's arm and the way his fingers are focusing on his cock and the soft little movements against his hip still.

"Mio Dio." Gokudera breathes at the same time that Yamamoto sobs out a weak "please."

"I'm going to kill him. I'm going to _fucking_ kill him!" Yamamoto barely registers Gokudera's growl before his attention is drawn to the loss of Gokudera's cool fingers against his forehead. He whimpers and tries to follow them but Gokudera shushes him softly and presses his lips to the sweat-sheened skin instead. The composer's fingers slide along the curve of his neck and shoulder, over the indent of his collar bone, stopping to dip into the pool of sweat collecting in the concave at the base of his throat. He can feel the touch, feather-light, against his flushed and shivering body, tracing over his hardened nipples and down his clenching abs, leaving goose-bumps in its wake. He focuses on it and the pain in his skull seems to lessen to a dull throb, the knots in his stomach untwine, but the ache in his cock; the ache in his cock intensifies until he can't hold back the sobs.

He's begging for it, breathless. It's like there's a fog enshrouding him, taking the pain away everywhere but where it matters most. The trail that Gokudera's fingertips leave is a pinpoint in that fog, a slow and tantalizing descent, a too small break from his fever.

"Gokudera, _please_."

And finally, _finally_ Gokudera's fingers curl around his cock and he sobs so loud it echoes off the marble walls of the bathroom. The black spots in his vision swarm and he loses consciousness, he knows he does because the next time he knows anything, Gokudera has laid him on his back on the cold ground and a mop of silver hair is all that he can see of Gokudera, hovering over his groin. Gokudera's palms are running up and down the inside of his thighs and his tongue, _oh his tongue_, is lapping lightly at the severely engorged, purple flesh between them.

"Oh God, Gokudera, _oh my God._" He screams and his hips buck up and Gokudera waits for him to calm, nuzzling into his hip and whispering against his skin. Yamamoto can just make out his own name and Gokudera repeating "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" over and over. Then the tongue is back and it's so good and so excruciating at the same time that Yamamoto can't do anything but shut his eyes tight and whimper.

One of Gokudera's hands slides through the sweat at the very top of Yamamoto's thigh and those glorious fingers slip further up to cradle his balls, stroking the downy hair covering them, darting behind them every so often to press against his perineum. And all the while Gokudera's tonguing his shaft, tracing the pulsing veins with the tip before swallowing him whole. Gokudera makes sure never to use his teeth and he keeps emitting this terrified purr in the back of his throat that vibrates all along Yamamoto's aching member. Yamamoto's unabashedly bawling now, his throat clenching with each gasping sob, red pressing against the backs of his tightly shut eyelids.

It doesn't take long, maybe a minute or two, and Yamamoto would be embarrassed if his orgasm wasn't simultaneously the most spectacular and excruciating thing he's ever experienced. The world goes white, blissfully white, for an everlasting second and he screams with it, arching up and clawing at the ground. Gokudera strokes him through it, swallowing and swallowing and never missing a beat until Yamamoto gasps out a series of unintelligible syllables and Gokudera stutters for just an instant but Yamamoto's already blacking out again. Just before his vision goes, he realizes exactly what he said.

xXx

He's in bed now. That much he can sense without opening his eyes. It's soft and warm and his muscles ache all over so even though this means the toilet is inconveniently far away, the cushioning against his tired body is pleasant enough to push that complaint to the back of his mind. It's not hard to keep from opening his eyes, they're heavy like lead curtains and his mind is still swimming in a fog. As such, he barely registers the sounds of yelling not too far away from where he's laying prone.

The words aren't English or Japanese so he couldn't understand them even if his head was clear but he recognizes Gokudera's voice and he recognizes Gokudera's tone. The Italian isn't even bothering to try and keep his voice down, yelling for all he's worth at the mystery villain in the room with him. Yamamoto can easily make out some of the more common insults Gokudera is flinging at whomever it is that he's arguing with- bastardo seems to be a favorite- but he doesn't try to listen too hard to anything else until hears Gokudera spit out a long winded sentence that means nothing to him until the final three words slip out of his mouth in an angry gasp.

"L'amore, fottendo l'amore!"

Yamamoto knows what l'amore is and he knows such a disdainful tone paired with what should be a beautiful word cannot be good. He groans and turns onto his side and tries to bury himself in his covers as if he can disappear and take his mortification with him.

Laying on the bathroom floor, after throwing up and, _oh God_, crying and just before he blacked out in a post orgasmic haze, he told Gokudera something resembling '_I think I love you_' and now Gokudera seems to be having a minor breakdown over it. Yamamoto is pretty sure that if he doesn't die from whatever probably as of yet undiscovered disease is ravaging his body he's going to die of embarrassment.

It's possible he'll be able to play this ill-advised confession as the ramblings of a man succumbing to fever delirium and then, as soon as he's better, he'll get the fuck out of Italy and he'll probably never see Gokudera again and he'll be able to look fondly back on this time, remembering it for the fling it was and nothing more. Only, as ridiculous as it sounds even to him, even in his current state, everything about that plan makes something in his chest clench painfully. Maybe he's not in love with Gokudera, because no one should be sanely entertaining thoughts of love about someone they've only known a few days, especially someone as secretive and manipulative and volatile as Gokudera, but Gokudera makes him do things he normally wouldn't dream of.

The thought of Gokudera makes his mouth go dry, makes him want to smile all the time and never get out of bed. And the thing is, there is never going to be another man like Gokudera in his life and even though Yamamoto wasn't thinking very clearly when those three terrifying words slipped out, he knew that then just as well as he knows it now, just as clearly as he knew it when he first saw Gokudera standing at the mouth of that alley.

His groan brings Gokudera running to the bedroom, panic open on his usually guarded features. He's followed by the man from the night before and Yamamoto has a flashback of Gokudera saying something about a bug bite and hospitals and perverts.

"Fix this." Gokudera spits out in English.

Yamamoto can feel the bed depressing by his side and then Gokudera's fingers carding softly through his hair. It's an oddly soft gesture, especially for someone as rough as Gokudera. It's tender and Yamamoto can almost delude himself into believing that Gokudera might actually care for him.

"I don't treat men," the man says stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest and smirking at Gokudera.

Gokudera's growl starts low in his throat and his fingers clench painfully against Yamamoto's scalp. The sharp sting aggravates his still pounding head and he involuntarily lurches away from Gokudera's grasp. Gokudera looks startled but almost immediately his face softens and his fingers uncurl. The touch becomes soothing again and Yamamoto leans into it once more, twisting his body around Gokudera's slim hips.

The look on Gokudera's face is painful as he watches Yamamoto writhe on the bed, almost pulling himself onto the Italian's lap. The heat radiating off of Gokudera's body warms him, chasing away the chills ratcheting up and down his spine. Gokudera meets his eyes for an instant and Yamamoto's vision is blurry from the migraine but, in that moment, he could swear there's something more than lust pooling in those deep green eyes. He thinks he could bask in that nameless emotion forever, but then Gokudera's looking back at the older man, working his jaw like his next words are going to be painful to say.

"Please," he forces out through gritted teeth.

Yamamoto closes his eyes, hating having to see Gokudera so uncomfortable because of him. His head isn't pounding quite so hard as before and he thinks that related to Gokudera's hand in his hair, but he can feel himself beginning to harden again and he _knows_ that's related to Gokudera sitting so close to him. He's beginning to wish Gokudera would just leave so he can quit feeling guilty or at least feel guilty by himself.

"Fine, kid. You owe me though. I'm getting tired of you and your sister coming to me to clean up your messes."

Gokudera's lip twitches as he fights to keep his cool.

"You wouldn't even look at Romeo until he was already dead and this isn't my mess. I'm not the one who made Yamamoto sick in the first place."

"Well, I never was fond of that little shit."

"Only because he was fucking my sister and you weren't. Pervert."

"Language you little cocksucker."

"Bastard."

Yamamoto hears this final exchange between the two men, faint from behind closed eyes, his pulse starting to slow as sleep overtakes him. They slipped back into Italian but he can hear the resignation and fond exasperation in their voices, the kinds of tones universally used by family.

"Just so you know, Hayato, delusional confessions of love are not known to be a symptom of this particular disease."

Yamamoto hears that, clear as a bell in English, feels Gokudera stiffen again and then the prick of a needle he didn't know was being prepared in the soft flesh of his inner elbow. He doesn't have time to feel even the first twines of renewed mortification before he's slipping back into unconsciousness.

xXx

The third time he wakes up, the sun is finally out and all that's left of his headache is a dull but entirely tolerable throb. Gokudera's gone, at least no longer at his bedside – he has a telling feeling that Gokudera's probably not in the room at all and he's pretty sure he knows why- but he's not alone.

There's an I.V. set up at his bedside, connected to the needle in his arm by a long, clear tube and the older man from before is fiddling with it, replacing one of the several bags hanging from it and feeding into him. Haru and Bianchi are standing like sentries at the foot of his bed, glaring daggers at the man's back with the kind of fearsome intensity only women can manage.

Haru rushes to his side immediately when he grunts and tries to sit up. She presses a pillow behind his back and squeezes his biceps and watches him with frantic eyes. Bianchi edges closer as well, but she doesn't try to touch him.

"Hayato told me you'd gotten sick," she tells him in that same smooth voice that had only a few days ago made him feel so inadequate. "I found your friend and brought her with me to help watch you while Hayato's gone."

Yamamoto resists the urge to ask where Gokudera's gone _to_, reasoning that he's suffered enough the past few days and having to hear a goodbye from the man he accidentally but truthfully professed his love to as relayed by the man's sister would just be too much. Haru starts sifting her fingers through Yamamoto's hair and he doesn't pull away but he doesn't lean into it either. Her fingers are too light, too smooth. He wants to ask so many questions. He wants to know what kind of disease makes you feel like you're dying from a hard-on. He wants to know how he got it and if it has anything to do with the mafia and if Gokudera and Bianchi are really part of it. He wants to know why Gokudera picked _him_ of all people and why all of this is happening to him and if it's part of a bigger plan to ruin his life.

He doesn't ask any of those questions though, because ignorance is bliss and he knows that better than anyone. He's Yamamoto Takeshi. He's happy and he always has a smile on his face. He was fourteen when he realized he didn't have to have his game face on all the time, that smiling and laughing and generally playing dumb could get him out of a lot of heavy situations. He was fourteen when he tried to kill himself and the biggest loser in school gave him something to live for.

Gokudera doesn't know that story. Yamamoto's heart sinks even further. He'd always thought when he fell in love, the person would know that part of him.

He sighs in a mixture of emotional defeat and physical exhaustion and allows his head to fall back onto the pillow. He wants to have the answer to all of his questions, but a larger part of him knows that curiosity killed the cat or, in his case, might break his heart. So instead he rolls his head to face Haru and asks the only question with an answer he knows he can stomach.

"When is our flight?"

It's an innocuous question and he thinks he sounded fairly nonchalant about it, but the look on Haru's face says otherwise. Her eyes turn sad as she gazes down at him like she can see right through him, see the way his little fantasy is shattering to pieces. He's ahlf expecting an 'I told you so' but it doesn't come, she just frowns and pets his hair and says, "tomorrow morning."

And that's all there is to it. Haru looks at him like he's a lost puppy with an injured paw, tears welling up in her eyes. The expression on Bianchi's face is almost regretful but solemn and Yamamoto wonders if that has more to do with him or Gokudera.

"Are you hungry? You haven't eaten in almost an entire day," she says like she feels sorry for him and _Oh God_, he gets it now. This isn't because he's sick, not entirely. Gokudera told Bianchi, he must have, told her that Yamamoto confessed and he probably ranted and raved in that way of his that Yamamoto finds so intriguing about how horrible it was and Bianchi told Haru and now they're coddling him. He's a broken hearted teenage girl in this scenario and he's not sure that he likes it. He's made an ass of himself and he's getting unwanted pity as the cherry on top of his embarrassment sundae. He groans and tries to sink into the bedding, sure that his face is on fire.

"No thanks," he mumbles weakly, remembering the champagne and Gokudera's accusation. It doesn't seem as far-fetched anymore.

Bianchi purses her lips in disapproval but nods. The doctor, _Shamal_ Gokudera had called him, turns and says something to her in Italian with a wink and a suggestive raise of his eyebrow. She glares at him and Yamamoto can suddenly see the resemblance between her and Gokudera in the fury in her eyes. He almost wants to smile, and he knows it's suicidal the way he keeps finding the siblings' tempers amusing, but he doesn't. He's too tired and even though Haru isn't Gokudera, her rhythmic strokes across his scalp are starting to lull him back to sleep anyway.

"Love is never wrong, Yamamoto Takeshi," he hears as his eyelids flutter closed once more. "Love may hurt but it is never wrong to let yourself love. Hayato will learn that someday."

xXx

He sleeps through the rest of the day and most of the night, fitfully but deeply enough that when he wakes in the early morning hours, he feels almost like he was never sick at all. The rooms are dark, bathed in silvery light from the moon. The I.V. is gone with the doctor and he notices as he glances around that his bags are packed. His favorite traveling suit is laid out over the back of a chair, coal black with a royal blue shirt, his worn out pair of black Chuck Taylors, and no tie. He can only assume that Haru did it all and he wonders when she had time to get to know him so well.

A shift in the shadows gets his attention and his heart nearly stop in surprise when the man he hadn't noticed until now strays into a soft beam of illuminating moonlight.

"Haha, ah, I didn't think I'd be seeing you again before I left."

"Don't be an idiot. What, you think I hate you or something?"

Gokudera's snarling but he looks as painfully awkward and uncomfortable as Yamamoto feels.

"I guess so, yeah." Yamamoto shrugs and offers up a faltering smile like his heart isn't pounding against his rib cage with every step Gokudera takes closer to the bed.


	6. La Parte Sei

**The next part should be the last one, fingers crossed. Thank you to everyone that's stuck by this fic even through my irregular updates. You guys are awesome.**

xXx

Yamamoto doesn't register the words at first, too distracted by the feel of Gokudera's lips against his ear, the ghost of hot breath against his skin. He doesn't hate Gokudera, he can't, he will never. It doesn't cross his mind that maybe he should ask why Gokudera said those words at all, that he should take the statement seriously.

"I'll never hate you," he says with the kind of true and utterly oblivious conviction that can only be affected by idiots in love. He brings his arms up to wrap around Gokudera's slim waist and presses his lips to Gokudera's jaw and then his cheek and then his eyelid when Gokudera sighs low and long and broken.

"Don't be an idiot." But the words have no venom, just affection and a little bit of sorrow.

Yamamoto doesn't want to ask why Gokudera sounds sad, he doesn't want to know. He's not really an idiot but he is a firm believer in the power of ignorance. Instead he presses his lips to Gokudera's, pulling the man's lower lip in between his teeth and nibbling gently, just enough to get a low moan out of the Italian. He runs the fingertips of one hand up and down Gokudera's back, feeling the individual knobs of his spine through the thin fabric of his shirt, just a t-shirt, well-worn and warm from Gokudera's skin. Gokudera lets out a little mew into Yamamoto's mouth and rocks his hips downward, grinding against Yamamoto with his growing erection.

The action reminds Yamamoto that he's still tender, still recovering, but his libido isn't listening, hasn't listened to the laws of nature since he met Gokudera. He's already hard and canting his own hips up to meet Gokudera's, to grind their cocks together through the barriers of Gokudera's pants and Yamamoto's bedding. Yamamoto's fingers trail down to the bare patch of skin just above the cleft of Gokudera's ass, left exposed by the way his shirt is bunching up around his waist and the obscenely low ride of his pants. He feels the skin bump beneath his fingertips, shivers of pleasure wracking Gokudera's whole body. When he dips his fingers lower, below the waistband of Gokudera's pants and the barrier of his belt, Gokudera gasps and his fists clench in the sheets near Yamamoto's head. He pulls his mouth away and his eyes are wide and dark with arousal.

"Yes," he breathes. "Yes."

Yamamoto narrows his eyes, confused, and brings his other hand up to brush the hair out of Gokudera's face, gently tucking it behind an ear. Gokudera turns his cheek into the touch, nuzzling at Yamamoto's fingers in a way that is so open, so intimate, it makes Yamamoto's chest clench and his eyes tear. He doesn't know what this is. He doesn't know how Gokudera feels about him and he doesn't know what they're going to do when he leaves in a few hours and goes back to his real life, back to what he used to think was his dream life. But he's never been one for planning ahead, preferring to ride the moment, preferring to be as happy as possible as often as he can. So he smiles and traces his fingers down Gokudera's cheek and then his arm.

"Yes what, Gokudera?" He asks softly, rubbing slow circles against the Italian's wrist with his thumb.

Gokudera's breath is coming hard, his chest rising and falling above Yamamoto, illuminated with perfect clarity by the silver light of the moon. He bites his lip, looking uncertain for a moment, but then his eyes narrow with determination and he reaches back to wrap his fingers around Yamamoto's hand that is still resting tentatively just underneath the waistband of his pants. He squeezes once and then pushes the hand further down to rest against the cleft of his ass, Yamamoto's fingertips delving into the foreign warmth.

"I want you to fuck me. I want… I want _you_ to fuck me, Yamamoto."

It's not a particularly odd request and from any other partner it would give Yamamoto no pause. He's not actually used to constantly bottoming though, if he's honest with himself, he does actually prefer it. But he likes topping too, it's just that Gokudera's never given him a chance and even the one time he an iota of control for half a minute, he was still going to bottom. It was clear as glass without having to be spoken.

The thing is, coming from Gokudera, coming out of his always snarling or smirking mouth, all breathy and light and lusty, the request sounds like a concession. It sounds like Yamamoto's crossed some sort of barrier. Gokudera's giving him something, letting him close in a way that not many other people have been. Yamamoto can't feel for his heart swelling in his chest, can't hear for the way his heartbeat is pounding in his ears. He's elated and he's angry at the same time, disappointed and joyful. Because Gokudera's letting him in, being vulnerable, giving Yamamoto the chance to hurt him and trusting him not to… at the worst possible time.

Yamamoto surges up to catch Gokudera's bottom lip between his teeth and nips it sharply, just to hear Gokudera hiss and feel his nails dig into the soft flesh of his wrist. Then he wrenches his hand out of Gokudera's pants and swiftly flips them, so that Gokudera's lying on his back on the bed and Yamamoto's looming over him, legs still tangled in the sheets just to the side of Gokudera's hips. Gokudera's eyes are wide and sparkling, pupils blown. His hair is falling all around his head on the pillow like a silver halo and Yamamoto's throat closes against an unwanted surge of emotion. Gokudera's beautiful and everything he never knew he wanted in a lover, a _partner_, and there's a very good chance that after this night they'll never see each other again.

He kicks the bedding away from his legs, freeing himself to crawl over Gokudera's frame and brace his knees on either side of Gokudera's thighs.

"Are you sure about this?" He whispers because he can't trust himself to speak with any real timbre without his voice cracking.

"Don't second guess me, idiot, just fuck me," Gokudera hisses, intent and resolve clear in his face and the way he reaches up to grab the back of Yamamoto's head and pull him down for a lip-bruising kiss that leaves him lightheaded and aching with need.

Gokudera pushes him off roughly and for a terrifying second Yamamoto thinks it's all over, but Gokudera's sitting up just enough to roughly pull his own shirt over his head and immediately get to work unlatching his belt buckle. Yamamoto crawls over to his side and presses his chest against Gokudera's arm, bringing his hand up to Gokudera's shoulders and nuzzling his face into the curve of Gokudera's neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses all along the muscle of his shoulder. The tip of his dick accidentally brushes against the bare skin of Gokudera's hip and Yamamoto can feel Gokudera's gasp vibrate under his lips.

Gokudera's movements become frantic after that, jerky as he tries to get out of his ridiculously tight pants as fast as possible. Yamamoto chuckles against his shoulder and Gokudera growls in frustration, finally kicking them off with comical violence, and immediately turning to pin Yamamoto back against the mattress. Yamamoto's back hits with enough force to send him bouncing back up into the air and Gokudera's on him before he can get his breathe back or his bearings.

He's still chuckling when Gokudera presses their mouths together, forceful with desperation, like Gokudera can't get enough. He swipes his tongue against Yamamoto's lips but he doesn't try to slip it past, just tastes the skin there, tastes Yamamoto as he grinds down against him, pressing their erections together and moaning with the friction that brings.

"Gokudera…" It comes out as more of a moan than anything else, but Gokudera must be able to hear the hesitation and the question in it because he stills the frantic roll of his hips and pulls his head back to look Yamamoto in the eye. Yamamoto's really not sure just _what _it was that he wanted to ask, not the specific words anyway, or if he really should be asking it. He feels like everything he says sets Gokudera off but he can't help himself. The words slip out before they're even fully formed in his mind.

"Why me?" Because clearly Gokudera doesn't do this often, and Yamamoto spares no delusions that Gokudera might be a virgin, but he doesn't seem like the type to open up to many people this way.

Gokudera stares at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, and Yamamoto can almost swear that there's a softness there that Gokudera doesn't mean to show. It's the same desperate emotion as when he found Yamamoto in the bathroom so many hours before, a dull-edged alarm breaking through, like Gokudera's own feelings scare him, like he cares about Yamamoto more than he wants to admit even to himself. His features go slack with something like resignation and then he looks away and sighs.

"It's always been you." It's utterly cryptic and Yamamoto doesn't understand, but that's all that Yamamoto gets before Gokudera is attacking his neck with a vengeance, sucking a hickey up onto the skin and Yamamoto's eyes roll back into his head and he forgets whatever grand conversation or declaration of love he wanted to happen as he groans at the pleasure of it.

The rest of it's just as rough and frantic as it's ever been, all biting and wrestling and fierce arousal that can't be bothered with details like love and goodbye. At some point Gokudera disappears into the bathroom, leaving Yamamoto sweating and flushed and cold without the heat of his body. He returns with a complimentary bottle of body lotion and he squeezes it out onto Yamamoto fingers himself, not waiting for Yamamoto to figure out what to do with it. Yamamoto knows what to do after that though, and he slides his palm across the smooth surface of Gokudera's ass making sure not waste any of the lotion, relishing the way it makes Gokudera shiver against him.

He slips one finger between Gokudera's cheeks and teases him, dragging his fingertip lightly up and down the cleft, never quite lingering on his hole. Gokudera writhes against him, rubbing his cock against Yamamoto's stomach, burying his face into the curve of Yamamoto's neck and mumbling swears against his skin. He finally lashes out and bites down hard on the knot of muscle in Yamamoto's shoulder and Yamamoto takes pity on him, chuckling throatily as he pushes his middle finger in past the tight ring of muscle.

Gokudera groans and his ass clenches, almost sucking Yamamoto's finger in and it's so hard to be gentle, not when it's so easy to push his finger in all the way up to the second knuckle, not when Gokudera's pushing back against his hand and moaning like he needs more and needs it right now. So Yamamoto obliges him, pulling his finger back out and lining his index finger up with it. They don't go in as easily together, but Gokudera doesn't seem to be in any pain, just maybe a little tense. Yamamoto turns his head and licks at the shell of Gokudera's ear, whispering nonsense like 'so hot' and 'so tight' and 'so good', to relax him.

He crooks his fingers and drags the tips over the velvety walls inside of Gokudera until he finds the one spot that makes Gokudera shudder violently in his arms and growl deep in his throat. "Come on, asshole, come on, now. Do it now."

Yamamoto kisses the side of his head and pulls his fingers loose, grabbing the bottle of lotion with his already dirtied hand while he fits the clean one over the curve of Gokudera's hip. He squeezes the lotion straight onto his cock and slicks it up before guiding Gokudera to sit back and lining himself up so that the head of his cock brushes against Gokudera's ass cheeks, tantalizingly close.

"Ready?" He breathes, husky and barely audible.

"Fuck you. Do you ever stop asking questions?" Gokudera's snarl breaks halfway through as Yamamoto shifts his hand to wrap his fingers around Gokudera's cock and gives a quick tug. Then he pushes his hips up, pressing into Gokudera as slowly as he can manage and it feels so good, he can barely breathe. There's some initial resistance, but it gives as soon as Yamamoto starts stroking Gokudera with a rhythm that matches the small twitch in his hips and the pounding of his heart.

He knows it's okay to move when Gokudera takes matters into his own control, planting his palms firmly against Yamamoto's chest and sitting down hard on his hips. He throws back his head and bares his throat to the ceiling as he starts to move up and down on Yamamoto's cock, rolling his hips with ever push. Yamamoto begins thrusting immediately, pushing up into Gokudera every time he seats himself.

He knows he's leaving bruises on Gokudera's skin where he's digging his fingertips into his hip, but he kind of likes the idea, likes that there will be marks that he left, marks that will remind Gokudera of him for at least a few days to come. It's that thought that sends him over the edge, the image of Gokudera in his mind, naked with purple marks pressed deep into his skin, admiring himself in a mirror and pressing against them, remembering the feel of Yamamoto's fingertips there. Yamamoto thrusts up hard into Gokudera one last time, a strangled moan slipping past his lips as he comes, his fingers tightening in a spasm around Gokudera's cock until Gokudera's coming as well, spilling out all over Yamamoto's chest.

xXx

Gokudera manages to drag himself to the bathroom to clean up and brings back a towel to wipe the cum off of Yamamoto's stomach, but that's all he manages before he's climbing back underneath the covers. They lie there, panting, with sweat glistening on their skin as the sky outside starts to turn a faint shade of magenta. Gokudera rolls over so that he can rest his cheek against the sticky skin of Yamamoto's chest. Yamamoto tries to keep breathing normally, but he can't help but be shocked and silently delighted by the intimate posture. He curls his fingers around Gokudera's waist and repeatedly brushes his thumb over the sharp edges of his ribs. He can feel the end coming and he wants to kick and scream and throw the kind of tantrum he hasn't done since he was a child. He doesn't want to go home, not now that he's found the one thing he hadn't even realized that he'd been missing.

Despite the warm and loose lay of their bodies, there is still an air of tension in the room, in the way that Gokudera is holding himself against Yamamoto's side. There are so many unanswered questions, answers that Yamamoto isn't sure he wants. Maybe he should let it go, get on that plane and let Gokudera's features fade into the background of his memory, become a fantastic tale of lost love he can tell the grandchildren he knows he wants but may never have.

But if he doesn't get the answers then the story is incomplete and if he really is in love then he'd be disrespecting that feeling by filling in the blanks with falsehoods that only seem to fit right in his mind. Gokudera's body is still thrumming with energy, unspoken words dying to be released, but Gokudera's too proud, too stubborn. So Yamamoto starts, whispers softly against the crown of Gokudera's head, silver strands of hair fluttering against his lips with every puff of breath.

"Haru told me a story… about a composer that lives in a mansion on the side of a cliff and writes all of his music on an old piano that his mother left him when she died. It was supposed to be romantic."

"Was it?" Gokudera snorts against his skin. Yamamoto shrugs and smiles a little sheepishly even though Gokudera can't see it.

"My mom died when I was three," Gokudera says after a long moment of heavy silence, "I barely even knew her."

"Oh," Yamamoto says softly, sadly, with more than a little bit of sympathy, "mine died when I was young too."

It's not much, won't make it any easier that it happened to Gokudera or to himself, but it's all he knows to say. Gokudera makes a noncommittal noise, but he presses a quick kiss to Yamamoto's chest that starts up a flutter in Yamamoto's stomach, even though Gokudera probably didn't even mean for Yamamoto to feel it.

"Is there a house on a cliff?" Yamamoto asks, not really that interested in the answer. It's not the most important question he needs to ask but it's easier.

"My father has one but I don't live in it and I sure as hell don't fucking compose there."

"Oh. My old man's my best friend," Yamamoto says and Gokudera snorts.

"Lucky you."

There's another lull, each of them knowing what needs to be said but hesitant to be the one to say it. Finally Yamamoto feels Gokudera stir against him and he tightens his grip around the other man's waist as the butterflies riot in his stomach.

"I don't get along with my family, never really have. I ran away for the first time when I was eight…"

Yamamoto resists the urge to ask him where he went or to try and establish another bond by claiming that he ran away as a child too, because he didn't. He never did unless he wants to wax philosophical and count the edge of the school roof. He doesn't.

"I felt like my stepmother's stupid prized poodle. Nobody ever tried to talk to me about anything, ever told me the truth. They just dressed me up and made me perform and gave me pats on the head and treats when I did something right.

"And the worst part about the entire thing," Gokudera groans, "wasn't that my only friend was a raging pervert twice my age or that my dad only paid attention to me when he needed me to impress his business associates. The worst thing was that my sister would bake me things and I'd get food poisoning every time, but she was the favorite, she was daddy's little girl, my father was actually married to her mother…" He gets quiet at the last part and Yamamoto feels a sudden stronger stab of sympathy for him.

"So no one ever stopped to think that maybe I wasn't just acting out for attention, maybe the bitch just couldn't cook. But Shamal was the only person that ever tolerated me so I was going to spend all of my time with him anyway.

"So I ran away and that asshole brought me back. Every single time he or Bianchi would find me. Then finally, I guess Shamal got tired of having to search for me, so he showed me this little apartment that he kept in the city. Said I could go there whenever I needed as long as I was never there when he was. I guess in a rare instance of maturity he decided it wasn't right for a little kid to be subjected to his special brand of depravity.

"When I finally convinced my father to let me study abroad for a little while, all that fucker Shamal said to me was 'make sure I took time to appreciate the women there'. I was fourteen, that shit. And he already knew I didn't like girls."

"So that's where you took me?" Yamamoto asks semi-rhetorically, mind drifting to a fleeting image of a foreign boy that had come to his school when _he_ was fourteen, the boy who had made Yamamoto become aware of just how much he liked boys and how little he cared for all the girls that flocked around him all of the time.

Realizing that the path of his sexuality wasn't as straight as it could be might have been world shattering for some people, but Yamamoto took it in stride, like it wasn't a significant aspect of his personality. And eventually there were more important things to focus on. But for a moment, there had been a boy, and Yamamoto doesn't remember what country he'd been from anymore, only that he was different and he stirred up feelings in Yamamoto that he didn't understand. He doesn't remember the boy's name or the color of his eyes. He doesn't remember the boy at all unless pressed to by someone who thinks about middle school more often than he does.

The boy had been there for a year and then he'd been gone with as much announcement as when he'd arrived. He'd never given Yamamoto the time of day. He knew at the time that the boy had been friends, or close enough to it, with Tsuna, but that was before _Yamamoto_ had really been friends with Tsuna, and by the time he broke his arm and Tsuna saved his life, the boy had been gone, back to whatever country he'd come from.

If it had been a romance novel, there would have been long paragraphs about how Yamamoto stroked himself to his very first climaxes thinking of every detail of the boy's face and of his body, but that's not what happened. He was a teenager full of hormones and most of the time when he jerked off, it was to pictures in sports magazines that he had lying around anyway and didn't have to hide afterwards. He didn't write poetry about the curve of the boy's lips or the way the sunlight glinted off the –insert color here- locks of his hair, so he doesn't remember any of that.

He remembers the smell of smoke, though, and maybe of cinnamon.

"Yea," Gokudera grunts, shifting, embarrassed. "That's where I go to compose. There's more life there, more inspiration."

Yamamoto watches a blush creep across Gokudera's cheeks and smiles delightedly.

"So cute!" He chirps and Gokudera growls and turns red because of an entirely different emotion, struggling to get out from under Yamamoto's arm.

"I am not cute!"

Yamamoto tightens his grip and grins, "Ah, but Gokudera, I think you are."

"I'm in the mafia, you asshole. I'm not fucking cute, I'm dangerous!"

Yamamoto thinks about how quickly he fell in love with this relative stranger, how many unfortunate things have happened to him since they met, how much it's going to hurt to leave it all.

"Yes, yes. You are that too."

Gokudera is not actually in the mafia, he comes to find out as they continue talking, putting off Yamamoto's inevitable departure. Gokudera's father does have mob connections, but Gokudera gave up any aspirations of following in his father's footsteps when, after returning from wherever he'd studied- he doesn't say where and Yamamoto doesn't ask, because the chance that it was Japan and at Nammimori Middle too, is so far-fetched that it just sounds stupid even to him- he was given the opportunity to study at a prestigious music conservatory, where there were dorms and other students and no family members to make him miserable.

Yamamoto learns just enough of Gokudera's history to make him feel more comfortable with loving the man already. He talks about himself freely, about working in his old man's sushi shop, and almost committing suicide and Tsuna. He notices the odd way Gokudera stiffens when he talks about Tsuna and with a giddy immaturity, chalks it up to jealousy. So he doesn't tell Gokudera about the foreign exchange student and realizing that he didn't like girls either, it doesn't seem right.

They never talk about exactly why Gokudera let Yamamoto believe he was a prostitute, it's starting to seem less and less important as the sun rises higher in the sky. Then, too soon, there's a knock on the door and a bellman to carry his things. And then he's shrugging into his suit and watching Gokudera who's watching out the window as he sucks on a cigarette.

"Will I ever see you again?" Yamamoto asks quietly, and immediately cringes at how cliché it sounds. For a moment, the defiant, guarded look on Gokudera's face slips, and the vulnerability in his eyes is like a punch to Yamamoto's gut. Gokudera looks hopeful and innocent and so _broken-hearted_, but it's only for an instant and his expression closes off again.

He brushes past Yamamoto on his way out the door, snagging his pinky finger on Yamamoto's belt loop just long enough and hard enough for Yamamoto to feel himself tugged towards the Italian, like it's an invitation to follow even though he knows it's not.

"You know where to find me." Then Gokudera's walking out the door and out of his life.


	7. La Parte Sette

Hi! For anyone that's still following this story, this is _technically _the last part. For all accounts and purposes this story is finished and all questions are answered, _but_, because it took me so long to finish the year anniversary of when I posted the first chapter on livejournal is coming up in April. So it basically took me a year to write this thing and so in mid-April I will be posting a small epilogue. Anyway, thank you all for reading and enjoying the ride with me!

xXx

Japan is home. No matter how many years he spends in California, Japan will always be where he was born, where he grew up, where he learned to play ball and where his best friends and his father still live. So when he takes his first step out of the airport and takes a deep breath, he immediately feels a rush of emotion that he can't really name swell in his chest. It's something between nostalgia and overwhelming happiness, like a burning ache of homesickness that he wasn't even aware of has suddenly been eased.

He had a good season, the team didn't make it past the first round of the series but _he_ had a good season, a great one. He didn't wallow in self-pity or pine hopelessly. He put all of his focus into the game, all of his emotion, and it paid off. And he's not really upset about it not continuing, even though baseball provided the best distraction that anything could, because now he's here, he's _home_, and he's as happy as he can be.

He hefts a bag over his shoulder, holds another one by the straps down by his hip, and doesn't even flinch at the bright floral print of it. His masculinity is not threatened by a few flowers, especially not when there's a pretty girl at his side for him to attribute the feminine bag to. Haru threads her arm through his and smiles widely as the cab they'd hailed at the airport drives off behind them.

"Hahi! Takeshi-kun, isn't this exciting? Can you hardly wait for the wedding?" She squeezes his bicep for emphasis and bounces on the balls of her feet. Yamamoto grins and tugs her forward, toward the front step of her parents' house.

"I love weddings," he admits, chuckling a bit at the end. He is excited, but mostly he's just happy to be home, somewhere where he knows right from wrong and up from down.

"Such a romantic," Haru gushes, eyes sparkling, but there's something else there, a hesitance he's been trying to ignore since they got back from Italy.

She'd had more premieres to attend and he'd had practice and freeway pre-games to get ready for the season. They'd talked over the phone and through e-mail and had several dinner dates when they both had some downtime, just to appease their publicists and the hype the two women had worked so hard to create surrounding their fake romance. But the important thing was they'd stayed friends on their own and Yamamoto liked having someone who understood him and his background, to talk to. But every time she'd tried to bring up Italy, he'd clammed up, smiled and evaded the question until she'd gotten the hint and given up. She'd been there, been a part of the entire thing, but Italy was his, something he wanted to keep for himself.

He gets Haru to the door and hands off her bag and she leans forward and pushes up onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay? There's still a lot to do before the big day!" He gives her a tight one-armed hug and then sees her over the threshold before hiking his own bag up higher onto his shoulder and heading back out to the sidewalk. There are butterflies in his stomach, rowdy in a way they aren't even before a big game. It's been a while since he's been home.

xXx

His dad is overjoyed when he walks through the front door of the sushi shop that played second home to him his whole life. He can't even get all the way to the foot of the stairs at the back of the restaurant, before his father is jovially shoving him into an apron and sending him off to bus tables. Because being a famous international sports symbol didn't make him a different person and his old man knows it. When the sky gets dark and all the patrons have gone and Yamamoto's cheeks and arms are aching, he knows he hasn't smiled this widely since Italy and it feels good. He's been on a plane for ten hours, two hours spent in LAX before that, and he's just spent another six performing manual labor the likes of which he hasn't done since high school, and he's almost certain he's never felt better.

He resolutely ignores the little voice in the back of his head trying persistently to remind him of how it felt to lie naked and blissfully fucked out in Gokudera's bed.

The thing is, and it's something he hasn't admitted to anyone, not Haru, not his old man, his teammates, or his old friends, but Italy didn't end the day he left it. He'd watched Gokudera walk away from him with one final goodbye and he'd felt his heart break and it had been the type of crushing pain he'd never expected to feel for someone who wasn't family, like Romeo and Juliet sorrowful, _but_ he wasn't in fourteenth century Italy where they didn't have phones and e-mail and Google and he wasn't a kid whose voice hadn't cracked yet, who thought he was in love with everyone he met and would throw his life away over a few hormones. He was in an Italy of the technological age and in love for the first time in his whole life with an infamous composer- a man who could be found if someone searched with the right keywords.

Yamamoto is an optimistic person, always seeing the silver lining and the good in people, and when Gokudera left, his heart had broken into a million tiny pieces, but it had only taken a few days of wallowing before he picked himself up and put himself back together and sent a letter with his address in California and his phone number to one H. Gokudera at the hotel he and Haru had stayed at. It was weak but it was the best he could do, save sniff around the entertainment industry for scraps of information and he didn't really have time for that. It was enough anyway, enough to give him hope and let him focus his energies on the things he could do, like play baseball.

It had taken a month, but one afternoon he'd gotten a call from a number out of the country. He'd answered the phone with his heart in his throat and he'd exhaled so loudly when he heard Gokudera's gravelly voice on the other end that he'd completely disrupted the moment and missed everything Gokudera said, sending the Italian into a tirade of foreign words that had spurred Yamamoto into a laughing fit and it was five full minutes before any real conversation began. That one call had cost him a small fortune but it was more worth it than anything.

They're not together, not officially, because they're still on opposite sides of the globe, but Yamamoto hasn't slept with anyone and he hasn't wanted to, and if he chooses to believe that Gokudera hasn't either, there's no one to dampen those hopes, because Italy is his and he isn't going to share it.

He slumps up the stairs to his childhood room, exhaustion dragging at every muscle, but as he goes he pulls his phone from his pocket and fires off one quick text before he collapses into bed.

_Haha, coming home is exhausting. … I miss you._

He can't help the warmth that swells up in his chest when his phone dings in return only a few seconds later.

_What, you have to see how the other half lives for a few hours? And don't say sappy shit like that. …Idiot._

Yamamoto smiles at the harsh words because he can read the inflection in them, clear as if the other person was standing right in front of him.

_You didn't say that you don't miss me too._

He's barely put his phone down before it's ringing with another text.

_Because I'm not a liar… Don't get it into your empty brain that I do though. Yamamoomoo._

Yamamoto knows that's as good as he's going to get and he's happy with it, a lazy grin settling over his face as he falls asleep on top of the bedclothes, still in his wrinkled suit pants and rolled up shirtsleeves.

xXx

The next day is even more hectic, reminding Yamamoto of the days when he used to rise early to help his dad out before meeting Tsuna to walk to school. It's not quite so mundane but he's been following a different routine for so long now that this one feels strangely comfortable. And those gourmet restaurants in L.A. can try all they want but no one makes sushi like his old man.

Every second he's here, he's reminded more and more of how much he misses being home. He's fulfilling his dreams, living every fantasy he had as a young boy on the baseball field, but home is where the heart is, as they say. That is, if he disregards the fact that his heart is chain smoking somewhere in Europe.

He manages to slip out of the restaurant before the lunch rush, a smile on his face and the smell of raw fish ingrained into his fingertips. The wedding is the next day so he's got the entire afternoon to just wander around and remember his childhood, some time to himself before he has to face all of his friends and their families, the questions and the stories and all the things he missed out on by moving away. It's a tiny comfort that Haru will be facing it at least a little bit too. He's not dreading it so much as he feels guilty, because he's missed so much without even realizing it. Everybody's grown up, grown apart, made lives for themselves that they may or may not have imagined having when they were young. He just hopes they're all happy, with whatever slice of life they're managed to carve out.

He would wonder just how happy _he_ is, but he's been doing that off and on for months at this point, switching between optimism and being grateful for what he's got, and every once in a while wishing he could have just that little bit more, have Gokudera in his life all the time and not just via technology. He also has to wonder just how fair it is to keep this part of him from everyone. He showed up with Haru, is bringing her as his date to the wedding, but she was already an invited guest- a friend of the bride's- so it was really just convenient. He's not trying to lie to his friends but he's not sure that his best friend's wedding is the best place to come out, loud and clear, and confess his love for a mysterious Italian composer that no one there will even have heard of.

He's musing as he walks, letting the familiar buildings pass him by in a blur of nostalgia. He's not really registering the steps his feet are taking until he's standing behind the backstop on the baseball field at Nammimori Middle- the baseball field that saw his first triumphs and failures. It only takes a twist of his head to direct his gaze to the middle school's rooftop, the very same one where he almost took his own life. But that's not what he remembers about it, not the first memory to flash into his mind as he looks up and lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the sun's glare.

He remembers eating lunch up there with Tsuna and shadowboxing with Ryohei and hiding out from Hibari and the rest of the disciplinary committee. He remembers good things and good times and all the things about his childhood that helped make him the happy and easy-going guy he is now. There are little flickers of other memories pulling at the edge of his mind as he slips into the empty building and climbs the stairs to the rooftop. He can't quite get a grasp on them, they're just brief flashes of things he knows he experienced, sensory perceptions that are strong enough to have stayed in his memory this long but overwhelmed by other events so that he can't quite grasp the whole of them.

His steps echo in the empty stairwell and he can feel the warmth from the sunny day outside seeping through the concrete as he pushes the door open. There's a faint scent of cigarette smoke on the air and it makes his gut clench. It's the same reaction he's been having every time he passes someone lighting up on the sidewalk. The smell of smoke makes him think of Gokudera which makes him happy and miserable at the same time, because he likes thinking of Gokudera, but he knows that it's never going to be him, no matter how badly he wants to round a corner and see him there. He can't chew cinnamon gum or leave a Christmas candle burning in his living room for that same reason.

He's sure the smell is just leftover from a student or blowing over from someone on the sidewalk below but that doesn't stop him from hoping. He's pretty sure nothing ever will; he's just that kind of optimistic. He's been thinking a lot about that foreign kid lately and being up here brings back a flood of images from that year of his life. He didn't spend a whole lot of time up here that year, busy with baseball and all the other things that take up a normal fourteen year old boy's time, but there were a few dozen times that he spent alternating between laughing with Tsuna and watching the foreign kid scowl out of the corner of his eye.

He'd really, really liked that kid, wanted desperately to make him laugh the way everyone else seemed to when Yamamoto cracked a joke. Usually his laugh was infectious but that kid never seemed to crack, no matter how hard he tried. He scuffs a toe against the dusty concrete of the roof, smiling to himself and stuffing his hands into his pockets. The smell of smoke is stronger now that he's out in the open but he's not that interested in figuring out where it's coming from. It's not going to be Gokudera.

He kicks at the chain link fence bordering the edge of the roof just to hear it clank and there's a soft snort behind him. He whirls around, swearing beneath his breath, thinking it's Hibari still guarding his old territory like a pit bull. He plasters a sloppy grin on his face, ready to do whatever he can to get out of this with as little of his body left purpled and bruising afterwards as he can.

What he's met with brings back the most searing memory of all, one recent enough that it still haunts him sometimes in his dreams. He's lucky there's no champagne this time, nothing he can drop except his jaw. Because there's Gokudera, like something out of one of his late-night fantasies, standing half in the shadows and smirking around the glowing end of a cigarette.

"Gokudera," he breathes and he's instantly half-hard because his mind is conditioned to where this is supposed to go, because it's not real, it can't be. He's locked in his bathroom with a bottle of lotion and a cigarette he hasn't smoked burning slow in an ashtray on the edge of the tub just to add ambience.

Gokudera flicks the cigarette away and stuffs his hand in his pocket, looking up at Yamamoto through the fringe of his bangs as he takes a few tentative steps out of the shadows. Yamamoto can't breathe, can't think. He's just standing there, staring, like if he looks long enough this apparition of Gokudera will disappear. But it doesn't, in fact it gets closer and its mouth purses up in annoyance just like Gokudera's would. Yamamoto's never been this good at pretending before; all the different shades of green and yellow flecks in his eyes, and the smattering of faint freckles across the bridge of his nose. And his _mouth_, twisted up like that, so pink and expressive, slicked with spit and stretched open around his cock.

"Are you just gonna stare all day, idiot? I thought you'd be happier than this." Gokudera finally speaks when he's standing just in front of Yamamoto, hands still in his pockets, head tilted down as if he feels shy or is trying to play coy. He's warm and twitchy in front of Yamamoto and he fidgets and pulls a stick of gum from his pocket when Yamamoto doesn't respond right away.

Yamamoto exhales loudly, still in shock to see Gokudera here. He reaches forward, lightning quick, and grasps Gokudera's wrist, bringing those slim fingers up to his own mouth and darting his tongue out to pull the stick of gum between his own teeth. It tastes like cinnamon, just like he knew it would.

It only takes him a second after that, just a second for his synapses to finish firing, for him to realize that this isn't an apparition of his horny mind and Gokudera really _is _right in front of him. It only takes him a second to push forward and slide his hand through the soft hair at the back of the other man's head and pull him closer, capturing Gokudera's lips and teasing them open with his tongue. Gokudera's surprisingly pliant beneath him, open to his touch and eager to press their bodies together all along their fronts. He can feel Gokudera hardening against his thigh and it's the greatest feeling, because he's missed it, missed it more than he even knew. Now that he's got Gokudera in his arms, he realizes how empty they were before.

He kisses Gokudera like he's a starving man and Gokudera's lips are the sustenance he's been going without. And Gokudera is just as eager, just as desperate to fill the void Yamamoto left behind. He's grasping at Yamamoto's arms, trying to pull him closer even though they're already pressed together, flush. They can't get any closer but it doesn't stop them from trying, until there's the sound of footsteps in the stairwell, echoing off the walls and, thankfully, in their ears. Gokudera breaks away first, his lips pink and swollen and shiny with spit. His chest is heaving with the effort of breathing, like he's just run a mile or smoked an entire pack of cigarettes in one go. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, hiding the upturn of his lips, but he can't hide the sparkle in his eyes, the one that tells Yamamoto everything. The one that makes Yamamoto's heart flutter in his chest because it's as good as a smile, it's as good as a confession.

The footsteps stop and Gokudera schools his face and turns away quickly to face the newcomer. Yamamoto just keeps staring at the back of his head, besotted with even the glint of the sunlight off of his hair.

"Hey, hey Gokudera-kun! Oh! Yamamoto, hi."

Yamamoto tears his gaze away from Gokudera's ponytail guiltily and finds himself staring straight at Tsuna, whose eyes are wide with surprise and a little confusion as he glances between the two of them.

"Yo Tsuna," he manages, shocking Tsuna out of his stupor and he smiles, all of his excitement showing clear in his face.

"Wow, I didn't think you guys would remember each other."

Gokudera clears his throat guiltily and Yamamoto screws his face up in confusion. He doesn't feel his stomach bottoming out like he probably should, too happy to have Gokudera by his side, but he doesn't understand how Tsuna could possibly know about their relationship when he hasn't told anyone but Haru.

Tsuna seems to sense his confusion because his eyes go comically wide and he stutters as he backtracks, even though it's clear he's not sure where he's gone wrong.

"I mean, it's been a really long time since Gokudera lived here and I didn't know you guys were close at all. I know he tutored you sometimes when he was tutoring me, Yamamoto, but, um, I mean."

"It's okay," Gokudera interrupts, shooting an accusatory glare in Yamamoto's direction. "Yamamoto and I met a few months ago when he was staying at one of my father's hotels."

Understanding dawns in Tsuna's face at the same time that it sweeps through Yamamoto with a mind-numbing clarity; Gokudera _was_ the foreign exchange student. He was Yamamoto's first crush and now his first love and he must have watched Yamamoto from afar the same way Yamamoto watched him, neither of them realizing how the other felt before it was too late. Everything starts to make sense, questions answering themselves in rapid succession. He has so many more questions than he could have even thought of before, things he needs to ask just to make sure that he's right, but now isn't the time because Tsuna's watching him with a funny look on his face and Gokudera's glaring at him, just daring him to say something stupid, and Tsuna's getting married tomorrow. It can all wait another day, he's waited this long anyway.

xXx

They don't get a chance to talk again that day. There's too much going on, too much to do, and too many people to see and catch up with. Gokudera stays off to the side every time Yamamoto sees him in the group. Obviously he's not the only one who didn't remember the foreign exchange student from ten years ago. There's a dinner that night at Tsuna's parents' house with the bride's family and all of their friends. It goes late into the night and Yamamoto only manages to find a few seconds to leave a fleeting kiss on Gokuera's lips when he's outside smoking a cigarette and Yamamoto is sure no one is looking, before Tsuna's adopted younger brother, Lambo, comes wandering out to sneak some time for himself and his pretty Chinese exchange student girlfriend. He looks sheepish enough that Yamamoto doesn't feel too put out at having to go back inside but he's still disappointed.

Added to the secrecy surrounding their relationship already, there's the fact that everyone believes him to be in a relationship with Haru, the lovely actress whom Tsuna also, apparently, knew from childhood. Yamamoto is starting to believe he really might be as oblivious as everyone seems to think he is, that he didn't remember these two people from his past. He's never been the most observant person in the world but he's beginning to worry that he may have missed too much, being single-mindedly focused on sports and then his career. He's luckier than he deserves finding Gokudera again like this and he comforts himself by believing that it's better this way. He can love Gokudera so much better now than he could have when he was fourteen.

Right now he's got to deal with everyone expecting him to act like a loving boyfriend to Haru, who goes along with it all but also knows the truth and insists on watching him with sympathetic eyes that have started going watery at random, quiet moments now that Gokudera's shown up. They've been cordial to each other, acknowledging that they've met, but not acting on the animosity that is still simmering between them. It's not the most believable acting that Haru has ever done but no one's asking any questions and Yamamoto's grateful for that. Haru doesn't have to do this for them and Yamamoto is endlessly in her debt and glad for her friendship, more every minute.

When the night's finally over, he's bone weary and a little bit drunk, making it harder to focus on Haru instead of staring at Gokudera's profile. He considers offering Gokudera a place to stay, unsure if he's staying in a hotel or with Tsuna, but he manages to refrain, assuming Gokudera will just say no. He doesn't really have the room to offer anyway. There's only his room and his father's and while Gokudera sleeping by his side again seems like it would be worth anything right now in his inebriated state, he's not sure the questions it would bring tomorrow would be. He's starting to seriously reconsider everything though, the happiness he's sure he would get from being in an open and labeled relationship with Gokudera would more than make up for any backlash there might be. He loves Gokudera, he knows that, and it's only grown stronger in their time apart, not abated in the least.

xXx

He's only a little hungover in the morning, a tiny headache that doesn't stop him from skipping down the stairs early enough to start helping his old man set up for Tsuna's wedding reception. He's suitably shocked to see Gokudera already seated at one of the tables, head bent over a cup of steaming tea and a stack of papers onto which, he's furiously scribbling. Yamamoto stops short on the stairs and just stares for a moment, taking in the way Gokudera looks so early in the morning, already so sharp and put together. He gets a moment to imagine waking up to this every morning, making Gokudera tea and breakfast, getting to come home to him at night. He wants this and the twisting in his gut as he watches the man he loves going about a normal morning routine, no knowledge of any eyes on him, just reaffirms it.

"Takeshi! Oi, Takeshi, come get some breakfast!" His old man catches sight of him before he's finished absorbing the moment and Gokudera looks up sharply, looking a little unsettled at being caught unaware. But then he gets this soft little smile that he immediately tries to hide by taking a sip of tea and Yamamoto smiles back, big and happy, before turning his attention to his dad.

"This boy says he's a friend of yours, Takeshi. How come I don't know him?" His father is significantly louder than is necessary in the empty restaurant and when Yamamoto glances over at Gokudera, he can see the other man trying to decide whether he wants to be amused or mortified.

"He's a friend, dad. I met him when I was in Italy earlier in the year." He takes a seat at the sushi bar, accepting a cup of his own.

"Italy, hmm. What's he doing here then? You bring him to the wedding?"

Yamamoto goes a little pale but he tries to sit still and keep a smile on his face.

"He was invited, dad. He knew Tsuna when we were kids. And Haru's my date, dad, you know that. I introduced you to her." He tries to lower his voice to spare Gokudera any embarrassment- he doesn't want Gokudera to leave before he can talk to him- but his father isn't getting the message.

"Yea, yea but you aren't dating her. The way you look at her? That's not how you look at a woman you love. You take a good look at your friend, Tsuna, the way he looks at that Kyoko girl. That's love, Takeshi. "

Yamamoto's fully red in the cheeks by now but, apparently, his father's not intent on stopping the onslaught anytime soon. He's focusing on chopping fish, every so often waving around the knife to emphasize his point, acting like these revelations are nothing more than mundane conversation.

"The way you looked at that boy right now, that's how I used to look at your mother. You're my only family, Takeshi. I know you, even the things you don't tell me, I know." The older man looks up, for just a second, and stares Yamamoto straight in the eye. "He's polite enough but he seems a bit temperamental. You be careful, Takeshi." Then he goes back to chopping, but Yamamoto can see the unabashed love of a father for his son in his eyes and his smile comes naturally again.

"Yea, dad. Yea, I will."

He takes his tea and he's half afraid that when he turns around, Gokudera's going to be gone, but he's still there. He's red in the face and his grip on the tea cup is white-knuckled but he's still there and Yamamoto chooses to take that as a good sign. He slides into the seat across from the other man, chancing a glance at the papers now being covered by Gokudera's forearm. They look like sheets of music, the top one only half filled in. Gokudera looks up at him, hiding behind his hair.

"I came here to set up my piano," he says through clenched teeth.

"This early?"

"I didn't know how big this place was gonna be. It's been ten years since I've been in here."

Yamamoto resists the urge to vocalize his surprise at the admission that Gokudera's been in his father's shop before. Of course he has. There's no use being surprised by anything anymore. He just smiles because he can see through Gokudera's lie and, like almost everything Gokudera does, it makes him ridiculously happy. He knocks a knee against Gokudera's under the table and lets it stay pressed up against the other man's leg when Gokudera doesn't spit fire at him right away.

Gokudera reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, exposing his face and the softening lines around his mouth and eyes. He tilts his head toward the sushi bar, indicating Yamamoto's old man.

"Was he telling the truth?"

Yamamoto's confused at first, "About Haru? Gokudera, you know I'm not dating her. I wouldn't lie to you."

"Not about that!" Gokudera hisses, trying to keep his voice down and yell at the same time. It's hardly a successful endeavor, but Yamamoto's father keeps his attention on other things, anyway. "About… the other thing."

"The… what other? Ohh. Haha, um, yea. Yea, that's true."

Gokudera clears his throat and pretends to look out the window, but he reaches over to brush his fingertips against the back of Yamamoto's hand.

"You ever going to say it?" His voice comes out gruff, but Yamamoto can hear the uncertainty in it. He flips his hand over to intertwine Gokudera's fingers in his own.

"I love you."

Gokudera doesn't turn his head, but his lips quirk up at the corners and he sinks his teeth into the bottom one, trying to hide the small smile from Yamamoto. Yamamoto doesn't expect to hear it back, it's enough that he can see it on Gokudera's face. But Gokudera squeezes his hand and starts talking anyway. So Yamamoto just sits back, ready to listen.

"I'm not a prostitute-"

"Haha, Gokudera, I know that now."

"Shut up, Idiot. You don't want to hear this story?" Gokudera glares at him for interrupting and snaps at him, but there's no real venom behind his words, just fond exasperation.

"Haha, yea, yea, I do. Tell me." He has no idea what Gokudera's going to say, but he wants to hear everything, forever.

"Right, _anyway_, I'm not a prostitute. I wasn't out there selling myself, just, sometimes I get blocked and I like to walk around that part of town because it reminds me of when I was a kid and living in Shamal's fucking love nest. That area, it's got the most soul, the most personality. It helps inspire me. I didn't expect to see you _there_, of all places and then you were walking up to me and you thought I was a fucking hooker. That's really fucking insulting, you know."

Gokudera stares at him hard to emphasize his point, and Yamamoto smiles sheepishly because he doesn't think it should be an insult. He still thinks Gokudera is the most beautiful man he's ever seen, at that moment in Italy and this moment right now.

"I just, I went along with it, because I didn't know what else to do. I've been in love with you since I was fucking fourteen. What the fuck was I supposed to do? And I asked for a ridiculous amount of money and you _paid_ it. Who carries around that much money in their wallet? Were you hoping to get mugged? I hadn't seen you in ten years and even when we were kids you barely paid attention to me."

"Gokudera, I liked you then. When we were kids, I liked you too. I just didn't understand what liking someone meant and liking another boy too. It was just easier to focus on baseball, you know?"

"You think it was easy for me? But that's not the point. It was easy to have feelings for you from afar but then you were _right in front of me._ And I wanted to fuck you and you wanted to fuck me and I took advantage of that."

"I'm glad you did," Yamamoto offers, brushing his thumb across Gokudera's knuckles. Then he thinks of something else and his smile turns into a smirk that ignites a look of suspicion in Gokudera's eyes. "Do you really have a poster of me in your room?"

Gokudera goes beet red in an instant, looking down and mumbling into his collar. "It's a calendar, I just never changed the month. You were shirtless… and all wet."

Yamamoto doesn't care that his father is still pretending to be busy at the sushi bar, he has to lean over the table and kiss Gokudera after that.

xXx

The reception goes off without a hitch. The bride and groom are radiant in their happiness, glowing like they're the only two people in the room. Yamamoto's happy for them, ecstatic, not envious in the least because Gokudera is never more than two feet away from him the entire night. Even when Gokudera is playing, Yamamoto sits as close to the piano as he can get, dancing with Haru and the bride and Tsuna's mother just so he has an excuse to stay on the dance floor and in Gokudera's line of sight.

The feeling of love in the room is infectious and Yamamoto rides high on it all night. He trades secretive looks with Gokudera all night, eyes full of longing and love. They make it through the night, both of them with no idea how, and when everyone's left they stay up even later, helping with the clean-up. They fall asleep fully clothed sprawled out on Yamamoto's bed when it's all finally over, dead on their feet, not enough energy left to do anything but roll towards each other before closing their eyes.

There's a heavy feeling in the air the next morning as Yamamoto sets about packing his bags, preparing for his flight back to the States. He doesn't want to broach the subject of what they're going to do now, of separating again. He doesn't think he can handle his heart breaking again.

"You're acting like you're afraid of something," Gokudera finally says from the windowsill where he's perched, cigarette in hand.

Yamamoto looks down, twisting the shirt he was folding. "Losing you again. I don't know if I can do it."

"So don't."

Yamamoto looks up sharply, confused. "I can't move to Italy."

Gokudera shrugs, smiles around his cigarette butt. "I've been thinking of moving to L.A. My dad's got a hotel there and I work in the entertainment industry. Makes sense." He smiles wider. "Don't think it has anything to do you with you, idiot."

But Yamamoto's already diving forward to tackle Gokudera out of the window, cutting off anything else the Italian had to say, pinching the cigarette from between Gokudera's fingers and tossing it out the window himself.

"I love you, Gokudera Hayato," he whispers between peppering Gokudera's face and neck with kisses, tasting the smoke on his skin, the cinnamon on his lips.


	8. Epilogo

Yamamoto wakes up slowly. It's winter and he instinctively knows that it's cold outside of his blanket cocoon, but he doesn't have to get up any time soon. The curtains are drawn and the sun is just barely peaking past them, keeping the room in a perpetual state of soft, shadowy twilight. He yawns and stretches and the bedclothes shift. He shudders when the cool morning air hits his bare shoulder and tries to burrow back down into the bed. His Akita, Jirou, notices that he's awake and immediately perks up, launching himself onto the bed, ready to start the day. The bed is a California King, the biggest mattress that Yamamoto could fit into the master bedroom, and Jirou still dominates the space. Yamamoto doesn't even realize that the cat had been curled up on the pillow next to his head until she's screeching and practically ripping the sheets with her desire to get away. Yamamoto chuckles and then wheezes when he gets a sharp elbow in the ribs.

"f'ckin amim'ls." The bedclothes get even more twisted up as the body next to him tries to reclaim the semblance of peace that had existed only moments before.

When the sheets get ripped from over his hips with a vengeance, exposing the entirety of him to the cold air, Yamamoto gives it up for ghost and hauls himself out of the bed, hopping when his bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor. He chances a glance back at the bed as he's pulling on his robe and pats his hip. Jirou pants at him for a second before jumping off the bed after him and landing with a resounding thud. What's left is a prominent pile of blankets tucked around a sort of human shaped lump in the center of the mattress and just the hint of a tuft of silver hair peeking out from the top of it.

He lets Jirou out, makes coffee, and thinks about what to make for breakfast before climbing back up the stairs to his room. He isn't really expecting much in the setting to have changed, and he isn't proven wrong, except that now there's almost all of a human face peeking out from the top of the blanket burrito on his bead, blinking at him groggily.

"Good morning," he says, far too cheerily it would seem by the way the face draws up tight in a scowl.

"F'ck 'ff," he hears as the face disappears back under the blankets, but they flop out a bit, an invitation for him to slide back under.

Yamamoto presses his entire side against Gokudera's warm, bare skin with surprising agility even underneath a mountain of bedclothes, just to hear the other man squeal at the sudden cold. He is richly rewarded when Gokudera shrieks and tries to scramble away only to be tied up in a trap of blankets of his own making and forced to either endure or fall off the bed. Yamamoto laughs and throws both arms around Gokudera's shoulders, pulling him tight to his broad chest.

"Bastardo! You're freezing!" Gokudera makes an obviously half-hearted attempt to wriggle free, actually burrowing himself closer in to Yamamoto's body if he's succeeding at doing anything at all.

"Won't you warm me up, then, Gokudera?" He asks the question innocently , even batting his eyelashes at the Italian for emphasis, then he laughs at the horrified scowl that crosses Gokudera's features.

"Oh God, you're so sappy. I am embarrassed to be in love with you. Do you hear me? Mortified." But there's a smile playing at the corners of Gokudera's lips and Yamamoto just pulls him in and buries his face in the crook of Gokudera's bony shoulder.

"I love you too, Hayato," he murmurs against Gokudera's neck.

He strokes a hand down the other man's back, curving softly to cup the other man's ass, naked beneath his palm. Gokudera shivers against him and pushes his hips forward, pressing his prominent morning wood into Yamamoto's hip. It's probably more than that at this point, Gokudera's been up here, awake and alone, long enough he could have comfortably done something about it on his own but he chose to wait for Yamamoto, even after two years of waking up together. It brings a flush of warmth over Yamamoto's body, making him want to curl up against Gokudera, around him so he's protected, and never move from this spot, ever. He's still every bit in love with this man as he said he was two years ago in his childhood bedroom after Gokudera announced he'd be moving to Los Angeles.

Gokudera had made it seem like he was making the move for his career, always so proud and reluctant to admit his true feelings, but when, shortly after the move, there had been talks of trading Yamamoto to Arizona, he'd caught Gokudera secretly looking up listings in Phoenix. There was no way he could claim that living in the middle of the Arizona desert would help his career and he'd gotten frustrated and red in the face and stormed about for a bit, but, in the end, he'd quietly admitted that he'd moved to the United States for no other reason than to be with Yamamoto and he'd go anywhere to do that. Yamamoto was beginning to notice a pattern to how all of the best moments of his adult life seemed to revolve around Gokudera.

He smiles against Gokudera's skin, pulling the smaller man further on top of his body, feeling Gokudera's erection pressing insistently against his own now. He licks a tentative stripe up Gokudera's neck, just to feel him shiver with arousal, then bites the skin lightly, sinking his teeth in just enough to get Gokudera moaning, but not enough to leave a mark later. He doesn't want this to be rough and tumble like the late nights when Gokudera had been up working or when they were celebrating a good game or when Yamamoto had been out of the area for too long, traveling, and Gokudera couldn't get his hands on every part of his body that he'd missed fast enough. Right now he wants lazy morning sex, the kind that half of the time doesn't make it past intense frottage because they're too slow and warm with it to worry about the mechanics of penetration.

This is the kind of sex that reminds Yamamoto how happy he is, reminds him that he has the love of his life wrapped close in his arms and that he never has to let go again. He'll never have to stand in a dark hotel room and watch Gokudera walk away from him ever again. Gokudera left everything he had in Italy to move halfway across the world to be here, with him, and Yamamoto isn't ever going to let him go.

He illustrates this feeling of possessiveness by squeezing the arm still wrapped around Gokudera's shoulders until the other man 'oomphs' in protest and glares down at the top of his head, all he can see since Yamamoto's face is still buried deep in the crook of his neck.

"Lemme go, you oaf," he mutters half-heartedly, squirming in the hold until all he's managed to do is ensconce his ass even more firmly in Yamamoto's grip and elicit a gasp of pleasure from himself when his cock drags against Yamamoto's. "God, at least kiss me if you're gonna keep me trapped here."

Yamamoto lifts his head, beaming, and his unadulterated pleasure manages to pull a look of fond exasperation across Gokudera's features. Yamamoto will take it, because he has become wise in all things related to Gokudera and he knows that Gokudera is every bit as happy at the moment as he is. He releases his grip on Gokudera's shoulders to instead place his hand at the back of Gokudera's neck and pull his head down, tilting his own chin up to meet Gokudera's lips in a soft, but passionate kiss that isn't rushed but is far from chaste. Gokudera slides his tongue between Yamamoto's teeth with ease and wrestles back some bit of control with it, but Yamamoto refuses to allow him to pick up the pace, indulging in the slow undulation of their bodies together beneath the cocoon of blankets, the soft light of morning spilling over the room from the crack between the curtains.

He can hear the kitten purring softly somewhere above their heads, but it's soon overpowered by the sound of Gokudera gasping against his mouth and the bedclothes rustling as they slowly get pushed down around their hips. Gokudera braces himself with one hand on the bed and wedges the other between them to wrap around their cocks. His fingers are long but they don't quite wrap around fully, leaving Gokudera with a better grip on Yamamoto's dick than his own. He begins to pump, pushing his hips up into his hand, but focusing more on the slow drag of his calloused palms against the silky flesh of Yamamoto's erection, pulling the orgasm from him with slow and sure strokes. Yamamoto digs his fingers into the fleshy curve of Gokudera's ass cheek, inching his fingertips closer and closer to the crease as his vision begins to blur from lack of oxygen and impending orgasm. He rocks his hips up into Gokudera's, finally breaking the kiss to turn his head and moan Gokudera's name.

"Come on, Takeshi, come on," Gokudera whispers in his ear, sending shivers down his spine.

Yamamoto gasps and arches, quickly flipping them over so that his cum shoots over Gokudera's chest and belly instead of his own. Gokudera looks confused for a moment and then perturbed as he glares down at the sticky mess coating his body. Yamamoto takes a moment to look too, kicking the now hopelessly twisted blankets out of the way. Gokudera's skin glistens in the light, pale and wet, his cock still hard and flushed red, straining upwards. Yamamoto smiles widely and ducks down, ignoring Gokudera's annoyed grumbles about being left unfulfilled and covered in Yamamoto's release. They are cut off mid-complaint when Yamamoto presses the flat of his tongue against Gokudera's navel, licking a long stripe up to his chest, lapping up his own cum like frosting off a cupcake.

Gokudera's stomach tenses beneath Yamamoto's ministrations, the smaller man watching with bated breath as Yamamoto licks him clean, focusing on every inch of skin but resolutely avoiding his cock, letting it bump against his chin and cheek as he licks around Gokudera's groin but never putting his mouth on it. Gokudera lets his head fall back against the pillows with a soft thud, groaning out his frustration, one hand curling in the sheets, the other finding a white-knuckled grip on Yamamoto's shoulder.

"Come on, asshole!"

"Shhh, Gokudera," Yamamoto whispers against his hipbone, using his hands to hold Gokudera's hips down when they try to buck up, find something for Gokudera to sink his cock into.

Seeing the flush creeping up Gokudera's chest and down his thighs, Yamamoto decides to take pity on him and tentatively licks around the head of Gokudera's cock, dipping the tip of his tongue into the slit to taste the pre-cum beading there. Gokudera moans and arches backwards against the mattress, digging half-moons into Yamamoto's skin with his fingernails. Yamamoto chuckles lightly to himself as he fits his lips over the head and lets the vibration travel down the shaft. He keeps one hand flat on Gokudera's hip, holding him down, and lets the other drift down, tracing the crease of Gokudera's ass with his fingertips, before fitting between his ass cheeks and trailing dry around his hole.

Gokudera bends his knees, digging his heels into the mattress and spreading his legs as wide as he can, giving Yamamoto better access. With the way he's writhing against the sheets, eyes squeezed shut like he's either in pain or ecstasy, Yamamoto can't tell if he's aware he's even doing it. Yamamoto pulls his fingers away, brushing them against the base of Gokudera's shaft where his lips haven't reached, just to see Gokudera squirm, before sucking three of them into his mouth alongside the head of Gokudera's dick. He swirls his tongue around them, getting them as wet as he can without dividing his attention too much from Gokudera's cock. He doesn't want Gokudera to lose that sheen of delirium because he's not focusing all of his attention in the right places.

He loves making Gokudera lose it like this, loves making him incoherent in his pleasure. There's none of the desperation that plagued them in Italy, when they didn't know how they felt about each other, how long it would last, when they just couldn't get enough. There are still times like that but right now it's about making Gokudera forget how to think. He pulls his spit slicked fingers free with a pop, returning his tongue to the slit in the swollen head of Gokudera's cock, digging in with the tip just to hear Gokudera squeal. If he were coherent now, even the slightest bit, he'd be mortified at the noises he's making but Yamamoto loves them, can feel himself getting hard again just because of them.

He slides his fingers back down Gokudera's crease, circling his hole once before pushing his index finger in to the second knuckle with little pretense. Gokudera's hot inside, like a furnace, and soft, clutching at Yamamoto's finger. He's too far gone to tense up at the intrusion, so Yamamoto pulls the first finger out and then slips a second one in, sliding in just as easily as before, stretching Gokudera's inner walls, stroking them with his fingertips, crooking his fingers and stroking against Gokudera's prostate. Gokudera's cock jumps in his mouth at the first pass and Gokudera lets out a resounding 'FUCK' that sounds more like a drunken slur than an actual word. Gokudera can't even muster the energy to swear properly anymore, which means Yamamoto is doing his job better than usual.

Not that he isn't regularly able to pleasure Gokudera to within an inch of his sanity but certain times are even better than others. Starting when Gokudera is still half asleep doesn't hurt his chances of leaving Gokudera worthless for anything for the next few hours after his orgasm. He sneaks the third finger in while Gokudera is mumbling incoherently with his face turned into the mattress, fingers working the sheets, clenching and unclenching, bloodless and white but still darker than the cloth. Gokudera subconsciously tries to spread his legs even wider, straining his thighs and pushing his hips up against Yamamoto's hand where he's still holding him down. He strokes over Gokudera's prostate again, slow and moves his other hand off of Gokudera's hip and onto his belly. Mouth still working Gokudera's cock, he presses against Gokudera's lower belly with the heel of his hand at the same time he presses his fingertip against Gokudera's gland and Gokudera gasps and arches his back, spitting out Yamamoto's name on a breath.

Yamamoto smiles around Gokudera's pulsing cock, trying to swallow every drop of come and failing as Gokudera's release floods his mouth and drips down his chin from the corner of his lips. He pulls his fingers out of Gokudera slowly, not wanting to leave the man feeling empty and continues rubbing Gokudera's belly as his dick slowly softens and eventually is allowed to slip out of his mouth. Gokudera is left panting and flushed, skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat and saliva and semen.

"Oh my God. Oh my God, what… what?" Gokudera's an incoherent mess and it leaves a warm glow in Yamamoto's chest.

Yamamoto is half-hard again but he's not desperate to do anything about it. It's weird but he gets almost as much pleasure from turning Gokudera into a limp noodle as he does when Gokudera returns the favor. It's something about constantly reminding the other man that's he's treasured, making sure that he never regrets his decision to drop his old life and start a new one with Yamamoto. It's been two years of bliss mixed. They've had their fights because Gokudera's a stubborn and insensitive bastard sometimes and Yamamoto can't always keep up with him when he's ranting or explaining something. But it would be weirder if they didn't fight and the make-up sex is explosive and the regular sex is pretty explosive too. Hell, the lazy morning blowjobs are explosive.

They're happy living together, coming home to each other at night and waking up to each other in the mornings. Yamamoto likes to sprawl out and Gokudera likes to curl around him like a barnarcle. Yamamoto had already had Jirou, who had immediately taken to Gokudera with a slobbery attraction that had not been immediately returned. Jirou had eventually grown on Gokudera but he'd insisted the dog not sleep on the bed, claiming there wasn't enough room for them and a small bear. Yamamoto had relented solely based on the fact that it was true. Uri had come later, a gift from Yamamoto for their two year anniversary. They'd yet to completely warm up to each other and Gokudera had the scratches to prove it, but she purred like a tiny motor around Yamamoto, so he had hope she'd fall in love with Gokudera soon enough, just like he had. Kojirou rounded their little family out, and Yamamoto thinks Gokudera might like him best because he's a bird and therefore aloof and naturally musical.

Gokudera looks down at him, managing to drag a shaky, sweaty hand through his short, spiky hair. He curls his fingers and tugs, lips turning up at the corners in a lazy smirk a normal person probably wouldn't even notice. Yamamoto grins and crawls up onto the bed, hovering over Gokudera's body. He lays soft kisses along Gokudera's sternum and then his collar bone before laying down along Gokudera's side, pillowing his cheek on Gokudera's bony shoulder. Gokudera shivers dramatically and bumps Yamamoto's head off his shoulder.

"Blankets, Idiot," he growls but it's soft and fond. Yamamoto laughs and rolls over, reaching over the side of the bed to grab the edge of the blankets and haul them up and over the lower half of their bodies. He curls back into Gokudera, throwing an arm over Gokudera's chest and pulling him close. Gokudera grunts but he likes to cuddle, as long Yamamoto doesn't comment on it, which he more often than not does.

Yamamoto kisses the top of his head, eyes already falling closed with orgasm related fatigue.

"I love you, Hayato," he whispers, but Gokudera's already fallen back asleep.

**THE END**


End file.
